


The Moonlighter and the Magician

by almaasi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (in the past), 1920s, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Agender Castiel, Alternate Universe, Asexual Castiel, Autistic Castiel, Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Bisexual Dean, Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2016, Domestic Dean Winchester, Drama, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Historical, Illustrated, Insecure Dean, M/M, Magician Dean, Musician Castiel, Musician Dean, Neighbors, New York City, Newspapers, POV Alternating, Prohibition, Prostitute Dean, Protective Sam Winchester, Romance, Sensual Attraction, Sexual Incompatibility, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smart Castiel, Social Commentary, Thief Castiel, Wanderlust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:06:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 67,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8223256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi
Summary: A Dean/Cas 1920s AU. Castiel is a jewel thief, notorious and revered in New York City. For five years he’s been unstoppable, untraceable. Like a bird courting a mate, he brings gifts to his neighbour’s window, hoping to impress the other man with glittering gems. All Castiel wants is to leave and travel the world with Dean. But although Dean’s heart is consumed with yearning for his peculiar friend, after years of being bought and broken by other people, he cannot easily give up the security of home. Can he put all his trust in the man he loves and choose adventure, or will Castiel be forced to fly away alone?





	1. Something Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is. The first story I’ve posted in seven months. _I did it_. This thing was a labour of love and dedication, and I hope anyone who reads it can take something precious from it. Even if it’s just that Dean would look damn good in a tweed cap and suspenders.
> 
> I hereby heap gratitude upon my DCBB artist, missaceriee, who did some serious arting to fit the tone of this fic perfectly (and in the process turned me into an emoji-using email fiend??). She was not only kind, but patient too – exactly the sort of person I needed to make this DCBB experience a pleasant one. If you’re not averse to spoilers, go [check out the art here!](http://aceriee.livejournal.com/1671.html) I love every piece _so very much_.
> 
> I cannot thank Libby enough for betaing this fic for me. She took it on single-handedly and, by golly, she only needed that one hand. High five, my friend. (Plus, many thanks to my sister for doing a last-minute readthrough, and letting me talk out plot points for hours at a time.)
> 
> One more thing— I made a playlist that ties in with this fic, [available here](http://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/151412530460/the-moonlighter-and-the-magician-soundtrack-for). It’s either mood music or spoilers, so listen/download at your own risk. ‘Kay, that’s all. Enjoy!
> 
> «··· ✧✦✧ ···»
> 
>  
> 
>  **Warnings:** Slow burn. Past Dean/Cassie Robinson, past Dean/people of various genders, past prostitution/sex work by Dean (one mention of bottom!Dean; past non-con). Mentions of period-typical homophobia, racism, and sexism. Implied autism-spectrum Castiel. Sexual incompatibility (asexual!Cas and bisexual!Dean; sex is attempted but only Dean finishes; masturbation). Sickly sweet fluffy ending.

«··· ✧✦✧ ···»

 

_Character is what we inwardly are and outwardly do._

—Sri Chinmoy, 1931-2007

 

_You can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him._

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1749-1832

 

 

 

«··· ✧✦✧ ···»

 

**WINTER 1925 :: THREE YEARS AGO**

 

Within an hour or two, all the newspapers in New York would be emblazoned with the same front-page headline: _The Paper Jaybird has struck again._ A vault was empty, and a jewel was gone.

 

Lieutenant Garth Fitzgerald stepped inside the black marble vault. His lanky figure was dwarfed by the size of the room, and the expectation that loomed: the thief must be caught. For one rare moment, Fitzgerald felt important. He inhaled deeply, filled with a steely determination. It had been months since he’d had the opportunity to work on a Paper Jaybird case.

 

He took off his flat-topped policeman’s hat and held it respectfully to his chest, peering at the clutter of storage boxes all around him.

 

The confident silhouette of Inspector Novak emerged behind Fitzgerald, wide shoulders practically filling the doorway to the vault. With a swish of his long winter coat, the Inspector stepped past to examine the crime scene. “There’s no need to smile like that, Garth,” Novak uttered in his Lieutenant's direction. “You might give people the impression you’re _happy_ about what happened here.”

 

Having been scolded for his enthusiasm, Lieutenant Fitzgerald became pointedly hangdog. “Well, shucks. Forgive me, Inspector,” he said, before brightening up entirely. “I just hoped we might actually catch the old boy this time. Every time the Jaybird steals another gemstone, we get another chance. If we play our cards right, this might be the break we need!”

 

Inspector Novak coughed out a jaded laugh. Shaking his head, he reached for the glass bowl perched upon a tall plinth, which was now missing an opalescent orb from its centre.

 

“Careful, don’t touch!” Fitzgerald yelped, grabbing Novak’s wrist. “Rookie mistake, sir. Your fingerprints will smudge the Jaybird’s prints!”

 

“Oh, please,” Novak said, scowling. “Whoever the Paper Jaybird is, he’s clever enough not to make mistakes like that. We’ve never found fingerprints before, and I’d bet my life that we won’t find them this time.” Even so, Novak stepped past the plinth, then began moving debris around, lifting cardboard boxes and kicking packaging paper across the floor. What was he looking for now?

 

“...Sir?”

 

“Nothing.” Novak scowled, huffing with exasperation. “There’s nothing! No clues! No bootprints, no handwriting, not even a cryptic riddle! And worst of all, no clear entrance or exit route into the vault. How many times is this going to happen? How many times are we going to be outwitted by this – this petty scoundrel?! Two years of this wild goose chase, and we’ve still got nothing. Am I not good enough? Is that what it is? Am I just a bad detective?”

 

“Not at all. You know that’s not true,” Fitzgerald said soothingly. “It’s three in the morning and you’re frustrated, that’s all. Look, the Jaybird is as wily as they come. Don’t give up now, sir! Come on, let’s focus on the evidence we _do_ have. The bank manager said the Paper Jaybird left his usual calling card...”

 

Together, Fitzgerald and Novak leaned closer to the plinth, where a paper feather had been placed for them to find. It was cut out from a printed newspaper, with blue ink scribbling out all but a few words.

 

Novak lifted the feather between two fingers, peering at it disdainfully.

 

“What does it say?” asked the Lieutenant.

 

“ _Thank you,_ ” Inspector Novak read.

 

“That’s all?” Fitzgerald raised his eyebrows.

 

“That’s all.” Novak’s jaw clenched, and he seemed to be mere seconds away from crushing the feather in his fist.

 

“I’ll take that,” Fitzgerald said hastily, slipping the feather out from his superior’s white-knuckled grip. “We’d better go talk to the press. No doubt there’s a swarm of reporters waiting outside.”

 

Novak sighed, slowly and heavily, pressing his chin to the tight knot of his necktie. “Fine,” he said eventually. “Let’s go tell New York how we failed, yet again.”

 

«··· ✧✦✧ ···»

 

 

 

**SUMMER 1928 :: PRESENT DAY**

 

Until Castiel Hartley moved in across the way, Dean Winchester had never imagined that the sound of a trumpet could be so melodious. The way Castiel played was... _sensual_ , almost.

 

There was no squawking or tooting – none of the offences easily associated with a trumpet. Oh, no. Castiel’s notes flew out pure and sweet, echoing through the narrow alleyway between the buildings, and his song would clear the air and make it golden, like sunshine after thunder. He was a real gifted cat, though he would never say so.

 

Dean returned home after a long, blessed day at work, and he threw open his biggest window, beaming. There he was: Castiel Hartley, his lithe body curved against the window frame in the opposite building, barely a stone’s throw away. His eyes rested closed, the peak of his throat rising as he tipped his head back, breathing his soul into his trumpet. Effortlessly, his improvised tune lifted the summer air to match the ambience of heaven.

 

Dean sank forward on his elbows, rolling up his loose shirtsleeves and putting his weight on the window ledge. “Boy, ain’t that the sweet stuff,” he said, shaking his head in time with the music. “Don’t stop for me. Keep on playin’, bud.”

 

Castiel paused for breath, his eyelashes catching in sunset light as he glanced Dean’s way. Castiel’s teeth showed in a quick, awkward smile – and his lips were back on his instrument, blasting out a tender new refrain.

 

Dean felt tingles all the way down to his toes. He shut his eyes and let the sensation take him over.

 

In his mind, Dean left New York City behind, with its dirty streets, thick smog, and everyday toils. He became a slow-step dancer on the stage of a little jazz club, somewhere in the deep south. He gamboled in shining shoes and slicked-back hair, a grin on his face, a beautiful dame pliant in his arms. An audience cheered for another dance, their faces hidden in shadows.

 

Castiel took a breath, and his song sped to a swing. Without even thinking about it, Dean’s fingers drummed a beat on the fire escape outside his window, making the metal frame thrum in time with the music.

 

Dean dreamt he was a waiter on the deck of a cruise ship bound for France, sweeping lavishly decorated dishes onto the white tables of the world’s richest diners. He showed them his magic tricks and he made them laugh, and he took a bow, his suit tails sweeping the backs of his thighs.

 

Not long after, he danced a jig upon a wooden table, arm-in-arm with a pirate ruffian, both half-dressed and half-drunk, while a room of people roared around them, cheering for the music. The trumpet played on, and on, ever-changing, always full of mirth.

 

Three minutes later Dean was selling candy apples at a carnival, most unexpectedly. He laughed, opening his eyes. One hand stroked back through his soft, oiled hair, and he watched Castiel with warmth in his heart.

 

“It’s crazy,” Dean muttered, when Castiel paused to take a drink of water from a near-empty glass.

 

“What is?” Castiel asked.

 

“The places your music takes me,” Dean answered. “I may as well be anywhere but here.”

 

Castiel bowed his head, a sly smirk pulling at his lips. “If you weren’t here, who else would appreciate my playing? The pigeons?”

 

“They flew off when I got home,” Dean said. He grinned when Castiel laughed. “Dare say those birds daydream as often as I do. Except they can leave this city anytime they like. Wings, and all that.”

 

“Mm.” Castiel’s fingers worked a pattern on the trumpet’s valves, clearly still playing in his mind. It was as if he never stopped. Whenever he spoke, his voice sounded just as mellow as his music, Dean thought.

 

“What did you do today?” Dean asked, undoing the top button of his shirt. “Anything worth sharing?”

 

“Do you want the truth? Or would you prefer something beautiful?”

 

Dean chuckled, head down. “Knowing the stories you tell? Who would ever want the truth?”

 

Castiel took a moment to reply. “India,” he said. “I went to India. I met a man named Taj Mahal, and he gave me the finest robes his money could buy. Only, I offered them to a passing merchant on the way home. That’s why I don’t have them any more.”

 

Dean burst out laughing, almost falling back inside his apartment from the force. “ _Taj Mahal_!” he said under his breath, still snickering. “Cas... You know the Taj Mahal is a building, right?”

 

Castiel grinned, more to himself than at Dean. He still gazed at his trumpet. “Tomorrow, I’ll be departing for China. I’m hoping I’ll meet pirates along the way. That could be fun.”

 

“I’ll say,” Dean agreed, biting his lip. “Tell me if you ever head for Hawaii, won’t you? I’ll, uh... I’ll hop on board, if you’d be willing to take me along.”

 

“It would be an honour, my friend,” Castiel said softly. He lifted his trumpet halfway to his lips, and the brass flashed with light. “Let me play you something, to put you in mind of, oh... beaches. Endless sandy beaches, bright blue sky.”

 

“Boat waiting in the harbour,” Dean added. “Salty air. Storm coming.”

 

“There’s always a storm coming with you, Dean,” Castiel chided.

 

“Can you blame me? Your music sounds best when it’s raining,” Dean reminded him. He pulled away from the window, undoing his shirt the rest of the way and pulling it free of his britches. His suspenders fell loose to dangle beside his knees. He kept his eyes on Castiel for as long as he could, but when he turned for his bathroom, the wall blocked his view. The sound of trumpeting became muffled, until Dean leaned over the empty bath and unlatched the window.

 

“Serenade me!” Dean called, waving at Castiel.

 

Out of Castiel’s line of sight, Dean undressed completely, turning on the faucet and watching hot water splash into the bathtub. He added a dash of bath salts to the water, breathing in the crisp scent as it filled the bathroom.

 

As he waited for the water to reach calf-height, Dean danced in place, hips swaying to the music, a smile on his face. He raised an arm to curl over his head and caress his crown, and he imagined the embrace of another man, holding him as they rocked, both dressed to the nines, alone in an empty ballroom.

 

Dean was brought back to reality by the sharp screech of a bad note. He snorted out a laugh, leaning forward to peer across the fire escape at his neighbour, who appeared to be as affronted with the dud note as Dean felt. Castiel stared at his trumpet like it had done him a personal disservice.

 

“Maybe that old thing’s had enough,” Dean warned him. “You play it day and night. It’s a miracle your lips aren’t swollen like a couple’a bee stings.”

 

“What else is there to do?” Castiel lamented. His eyes drifted to Dean’s bathroom window, and their eyes met. Castiel’s gaze lowered to look at Dean’s bare chest, but he quickly looked away. “I suppose we could talk.”

 

“We could.” Dean stepped into the bathtub and shut off the water flow, then sank down with a sigh. “Ahh, that’s the ticket,” he breathed. Raising his voice a slight, he called, “Hey, why don’t you sing me somethin’? You got a voice like a nightingale, right?”

 

“I’m no singer, Dean,” Castiel sighed. “I’m even worse than you.”

 

Dean sat up and glared through the window. “Hey, watch it, wise guy.” Seated in the bathtub, he was just tall enough that Castiel could see his eyes. “There was a time in my life I was thinking of singing for a living, y’know. Still am, if I’m honest.”

 

Castiel laughed so much his head bumped the window frame behind him. “You’d be no better off,” he chuckled, tilting his head. “A dollar a day? You bring in more money shoe-shining than you’d ever make as a crooner.”

 

“Please,” Dean retorted, settling back down in his bathtub, soaking up the warmth. “Attitude like that, Cas, you’d be a goner in the real world. I’d make a better singer than you would a shoe-shiner, easy as apple pie. The trick ain’t nothin’ to do with shoes, it’s about figuring out the people. They just want a sympathetic ear, is all. And nobody ever says no to seeing a card trick or two.”

 

“I know how to talk to people!” Castiel argued.

 

“Oh, sure you do, pal. I bet every shoe-shiner who dreams of entertaining a crowd _loves_ to be told they have no talent.”

 

Castiel huffed. “That wasn’t what I meant and you know it.”

 

“Well, that was what it sounded like,” Dean said. “Most people, Cas, they just wanna be told they’re important. You gotta assure them that they’ve got something unique that the whole world wants. That’s all anyone wants to hear.”

 

“I know,” Castiel said bitterly. “Frankly, I know it all too well. Everyone is selfish. I’d rather stay up here until I wither away and die of starvation than work a job where my welfare depends on the _generosity_ of other people. I’d only starve sooner.”

 

Dean raised his eyebrows. He was no stranger to Castiel’s dramatic statements, so he said nothing. His eyes stayed closed, but he soon began to frown. “Say... Cas? What _is_ it you do?”

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“What’s your job? In the five years I’ve known you, you’ve always gone and avoided the question,” Dean complained. “How _do_ you make your living?”

 

Castiel was quiet for some time. He was silent for long enough that Dean sat up and looked at him, waiting.

 

Castiel only fiddled with his trumpet, cleaning its inside with a handkerchief.

 

“Don’t act like you didn’t hear me, Cas. I think I know you well enough, it’s not forward to ask what you do. C’mon. New York apartments don’t come cheap, man. Nowhere near. If my brother weren’t raking in the lettuce I’d be homeless like the rest of my old pals. What’s keeping you afloat? As rich as that trumpet sounds, it sure as hell ain’t what’s feedin’ ya.”

 

Castiel raised one of his dark eyebrows, settling playful eyes on Dean. “Would you like to know the truth? Or would you rather hear something beautiful?”

 

Dean took a breath to reply, but he reconsidered. Castiel only answered questions like that when he knew Dean wouldn’t like the real answer.

 

Sometimes it was easier to believe the lies. Dean liked his fantasies, perhaps a little too much.

 

“Who would _ever_ want the truth,” Dean said in response, mostly to himself.

 

He lay back down in his bath, eyes open to stare at the ceiling. Cracked white plaster caught the sun along the edges, and a line of warm yellow light split the tiled wall before Dean in two. He stared blankly at the image until his eyes slid shut.

 

He became lost in another fantastic land in his mind, carried there by waves of music, elegant notes floating and falling like a boat over a heave of sea spray.

 

The sound of Castiel’s trumpet was just like his voice, in many ways. The moment Dean heard either sound, reality disappeared and nothing else mattered. Who could ever want the truth, really, when the alternative was as beautiful as this?

 

«··· ✧✦✧ ···»

 

Weeks slid by with little variance. A day began, and Dean would set out for work as the sun rose. He’d return home tired and aching, his once-pristine hair now a mess, his skin smeared with boot polish, his old cotton shirt clinging to his sweaty back. Every evening, Castiel would be there waiting for him, and that was as much a relief to Dean as a cool bath.

 

They’d sit opposite each other, lounging in open windows separated by the fire escape, sharing tales of fantasy and reality alike. They laughed and they drank lemonade and they shared food, thankfully with nobody else around to hear their more intimate conversations. Once darkness fell, they spoke of more tender affairs, things Dean never cared to tell another soul.

 

Castiel had never opened up to a single person before Dean. His secrets weren’t like Dean’s – his secrets didn’t detail the loss of his parents, or the way he raised his younger sibling alone. He never spoke of past lovers, or famous women he might fancy as lovers, should he ever have the chance to meet them. Castiel’s secrets were not about events, nor people, nor dreams, for he was plain when he spoke about those things.

 

Castiel’s secrets were quiet things, just whispers. He’d lower his eyes and he’d speak in a husky voice, his lips parted, his fingers resting still, then twitching. He would say his piece, and then he’d look to Dean for reassurance that his words weren’t strange, or that his confessions made him cruel.

 

Dean would merely nod. He’d listen. Castiel never seemed to understand that everything he revealed about himself only made Dean love him more.

 

Castiel had a dark heart, but his darkness was ruled by careful calculation. He knew he would willingly betray his family if it meant a friend could be safe. Fighting in the Great War had changed his character irreversibly, and even after eight years of peace, he was still haunted by horrific nightmares. He knew he would kill men with his bare hands if a situation came to that – but he could never harm an animal, for an animal would never purposefully do wrong. He loved his pet goldfish more than he loved his own mother. He was afraid of losing what little he had. That was his greatest fear, in fact. Loss. Loss of anything. His fish, his trumpet, his home, his health, his memory, his independence, his free will. His friend.

 

He looked at Dean softly as he said that word. _Friend_.

 

Just the one.

 

Dean told Castiel that he most feared being alone. He looked back inside his apartment as he spoke, eyeing the things his brother Sam had left lying around. Books here and there, an unfinished snack, a clean shirt draped over the back of a chair. If those things weren’t there, Dean wouldn’t know what to do with himself. There’d be no point. No point to anything.

 

“You’d have me,” Castiel said, like it was obvious. “If you didn’t have Sam, I’d still be here.”

 

Dean looked back at him, curious.

 

Castiel offered a small smile, and his eyes shone with moonlight. They’d never seemed so blue. “And if you didn’t have me either, Dean, you’d be okay. You’d find a way to carry on, I think. You are your own person, without me, and without your brother. And a magnificent person, at that.”

 

Dean blinked a couple of times, wondering how Castiel saw nothing but greatness in him when Dean saw so little. Perhaps Castiel’s opinion wasn’t all wrong, though. Castiel held a limited view of himself, of his music, of his humdrum lifestyle, but Dean looked at him and he saw a fierce and relentless light in the darkness.

 

Sometimes the light was literal; as the summer days grew longer and the nights shorter, the moon shifted, and during the hours Dean spent listening to Castiel play his trumpet, the moonlight would fall perfectly to frame the man like a painting. He glowed silver and gold – like an angel. Dean never said a word, but Castiel made the prettiest picture Dean had ever laid eyes on.

 

More times than Dean dared to count, the two of them stayed up through the wee hours of the morning, singing to each other in a hush, teasing each other for flat notes. Dean sometimes pulled out his old guitar, and he’d play along. He was no good, and he and Castiel both knew it, but there was no point having a guitar if he wasn’t going to play it. The electric fan would whirr away behind him, each revolution of the blades keeping time like a metronome.

 

Something soft and loving began to flow from Dean’s fingers, come the peak of the summer months. He could shut his eyes and rest his temple to the frame of his window, strumming away a gentle tune. His music conjured in his mind a wheat field shining in ripples, expanding as the wind sighed across the land. He described the picture to Castiel, and together they shared the fantasy, walking side-by-side through the grass, their pale faces silvered by the moon. They went to a red desert, the sand clicking with heat-crazed insects, a thunderstorm brewing black behind the mountains in the distance. They became pilots, then spirits, then wild horses.

 

They went to marvellous places together, and not once did they leave their windowsills.

 

And, when the trumpet met Castiel’s lips in a practised kiss, their sounds became one, and they were flying.

 

The night in New York City basked in a glorious echo. The streets flashed with the briefest of rainstorms, but within moments the sidewalks were dry again. Asleep in their beds, dreamers fell prey to the vision of magical places for miles in every direction; the muggy air carried the sound rather than stifling it.

 

Vibrations came slow. There was romance in their music, both Dean and Castiel felt it. Eyes closed, they never touched, but oh, did they make love.

 

Every night.

 

Like them, not everyone in New York slept at night. However, there were a select few people who would’ve liked to sleep but were prevented from doing so by the endless, endless music. Dean and Castiel were no strangers to being shouted at at two o’clock in the morning; they’d grown to appreciate the reminder that Dean had to get up for work in three hours.

 

“God, I’mma get my ass to bed,” Dean muttered, pressing his fingers on his guitar strings, silencing them. “I... _Auh_...!” He yawned, big and wide.

 

When his vision cleared, Dean gazed upon Castiel, who smiled at him fondly.

 

“Until tomorrow night, your royal highness,” Dean said softly, illustrating a bow with a twirling hand. “Sleep well.”

 

“And you, my prince,” Castiel said in reply.

 

Dean laughed. He laughed because he enjoyed Castiel’s playful monikers a bit too much, and it was easier to pretend he found them funny. In all honesty, whenever Castiel said the word ‘ _my_ ’, thereby claiming Dean as his own, there was nothing to keep Dean’s heart from leaping an inch in his chest, struck by lightning.

 

“Nah,” Dean rasped eventually, standing back inside his apartment, resting his forehead on his hand holding the lifted window. “You shouldn’t flatter me like that, man, it might go to my head.” He smiled at his best friend, still enlivened to his core. “I ain’t rich enough to be a prince. Honoured you think I’m worthy of the part, though.”

 

“You ought to be,” Castiel said, after a thoughtful pause. “A prince, that is. Is there anything _keeping_ you from becoming an illustrious nobleman, or a... a wandering traveller? You could go to all the places we talk about.”

 

Dean snorted. “You’ve been awake too long, man. Take a look at the world we’re living in. Sure, alright, there’s people in this city living it up with their music and their motorcars and their parties, but _here_ , Cas? C’mon. Outside of what we need to live, there’s barely a dime to go ‘round. I’m beat. Broke. Dirt-poor. No common education. No employer sees me for anything beyond the muscles to work hard labour. I’m no fat cat, Cas. You’re crazy if you think we could ever have any of the things we talk about.”

 

“No, I’m not crazy,” Castiel promised. He didn’t sound insistent; he was only correcting Dean. “Why should we settle for dreams?”

 

“Because...” Dean gaped blankly. He looked quickly to the right, where the alleyway between the buildings opened up to the moonlit street. He shook his head. “You _are_ crazy. Where are we gonna get the money, huh?”

 

Castiel smiled to himself. “You’ll see.” He pulled himself back into his own apartment, trumpet in hand. “Sleep, Dean. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Tomorrow,” Dean agreed, with an odd feeling in his belly. Castiel was a mysterious sort of man, but right now he was being downright cryptic.

 

Castiel held up one hand in farewell, fingers outstretched. He never waved, he was too dignified for that. Dean flicked a hand in reply.

 

Their windows latched closed at the same time. Dean waited until Castiel had turned away from his window, slipping from his moonlit square into darkness. Only then did Dean turn his back. His mind was full of questions, but the answers to all of them would remain unknown for another day.

  
«··· ✧✦✧ ···»


	2. The Tie Pin

“A tie pin?” Inspector Novak screwed up his forehead, the tip of his fountain pen hovering a half-inch above his notepad. He stared at Lieutenant Garth Fitzgerald, who nodded intently. “Why a _tie pin_? Jewellery has never been a target before. It’s always cut gems. _Always_. That’s the Jaybird’s modus operandi.”

 

“Maybe something’s changed,” Fitzgerald shrugged. “There didn’t seem to be a lot of planning prior to this heist, strangely. Less than a day, that’s all. See this?” The Lieutenant held out a paper feather, a perfect match for the rest of the police department’s collection. “He cut this feather from an article in the newspaper that went to print _this morning_. Would you like to hear my theory?”

 

“Go ahead,” Novak sighed, ruffling the feather’s jagged edges with his breath.

 

“I think the Jaybird found out you were visiting the French Embassy tonight, inspecting the Ambassador’s collection of goodies, and he decided to swipe something from right under your nose. He’s taunting you, sir, I’m sure of it. But you mustn’t let his teasing get to you.”

 

“Just give me the description the Ambassador gave you,” Novak demanded, bowing his head, ready to write.

 

“A long coat,” Fitzgerald said, reading from his own scrawled notes. “The word our exalted victim used was ‘billowing’. Isn’t that such a fantastic word? As much as I despise the Jaybird and all his nefarious doings, I kinda like the idea that he _billows_.”

 

Novak massaged his fingers along his temples, scowling at the French Ambassador’s leather-topped desk. “Please tell me we got more than ‘a long coat’. I just spent three long hours being _berated_ by international security about how utterly _worthless_ I am at my job. I no longer have the patience for your insufferable optimism. Just give me answers. What colour was this fantastic, billowing coat, dare I ask? How tall was the thief? Was the figure obviously masculine or feminine?”

 

When the Lieutenant shrugged and shook his head, Inspector Novak snapped his notebook shut. “That could’ve been anyone,” he sniped. “A woman in a long dress, a nosy reporter, another private detective! It could’ve been you or me, for all anyone knows! No. No, I don’t believe a word of it. This wasn’t the Jaybird’s heist.”

 

“But the feather...”

 

“Sometimes sneaky criminals copy other sneaky criminals, Garth,” Novak said, standing up, tucking the Ambassador’s exquisitely-crafted golden chair back underneath its matching desk. “People like to find ways to blame others for their wrongdoings.” In a fit of frustration, Novak slapped an inkwell down onto desk, ignoring the black splotch that slowly began to spread. “Fuck! I can’t believe I lost three hours of my life and a significant part of my professional reputation because of a _copycat_.”

 

“How can you be sure it’s a copycat?”

 

“The real Jaybird would never stoop to breaking-and-entering, like tonight,” Novak said with brutal confidence. “He’s a skilled cat burglar, not a common housebreaker, even if the house is as heavily protected as this. Stealing jewellery is completely out of character.”

 

“We can explain to the Ambassador that his tie pin was stolen by a copycat,” Fitzgerald said, trotting after Novak across the plush red carpet, following his long strides. “Not every thief in New York is the Jaybird! Just because you were inside the Embassy when a thief dropped by, that doesn’t make you responsible. If anything, the Ambassador’s security team are the ones who failed. It’s not your fault this happened, Inspector.”

 

Inspector Novak stopped before he reached the tall doors to the room, which were both closed. Guards stood ready to open them, eyes looking curiously at Novak. They hadn’t expected him to pause.

 

Novak exhaled, shoulders slumping. “You know,” he said, looking kindly at his partner, “I don’t thank you enough, Garth. Sometimes I think you’re all that keeps me sane. Without you... well, let’s just say I’d have given up long ago.”

 

“Just doing my duty, sir,” Fitzgerald said, smiling. He seemed to swell with satisfaction.

 

Novak nodded once, firmly. “Good. Now,” he said, turning back to the guards. “Sirs, if you would be so kind, I’d like to request an audience with the Ambassador for the second time tonight. I want to make _damn_ sure all this commotion stays out of the newspapers; I don’t take well to being blamed for things out of my control.”

 

«··· ✧✦✧ ···»

 

“Cas?”

 

Dean tapped on Castiel’s window again. The barrier of the fire escape dug into his waist as he stretched his torso across the gap, trying to reach Castiel’s usual perch. He could see into the apartment, and he could make out the vague shapes of the fishbowl and an armchair, but everything else was drenched in brown shadows.

 

Dean knocked one more time, then sighed as he pulled back. Castiel clearly wasn’t home. That bothered Dean. Castiel was _always_ home. On a beautiful evening like this, Castiel ought to be curled in the windowsill. That was where he always was, come rain or snow or suffocating heat. In bad weather he’d be wearing his trenchcoat, maybe a scarf and a blanket if it was especially cold. He’d said it himself once – there was nothing that could keep him away from Dean.

 

Dean stared at the closed window, bare toes curled over the railings underfoot. He wasn’t sure what to do now. He settled for waiting. It seemed like the sensible thing to do. It was what Cas always did – usually he’d be waiting for hours. Most days it appeared as though Castiel did nothing except wait for Dean to get home. It was flattering in a way, but Dean did always wonder how his neighbour filled his time when he _wasn’t_ playing his trumpet. There was a life and a person behind that window that Dean had never seen.

 

Dean played his guitar quietly until the sun went down. The air remained sweltering, even after dark. Every hour that passed, Dean grew more anxious. Could Cas be in trouble? Did something happen? Did he get on the wrong train again? Did his cab get stuck in traffic? There was no way to know, and Dean couldn’t rescue him if he didn’t know where to look.

 

He’d be home soon, Dean told himself. Cas always showed his face at the window eventually.

 

Midnight came and went. Dean left the window and returned with his cold dinner, eating with his plate balanced on one knee. He kept his eyes on the window.

 

He strummed his favourite songs until he got bored, then he pulled his playing cards out of his pocket and busied himself practising a new trick. The backs of the playing cards were all decorated with a drawing, one plump red fish swimming in a curve, an impish smile on its pouting lips. The texture of printed scales slipped delicately under Dean’s thumb, and he knew each card by the raised dots he felt against his thumbprint. He’d told nobody about his trick deck – not Sam, not Castiel. Even an amateur magician ought never reveal his secrets, especially to the two people who were most fun to practice on.

 

One o’clock came and went, and Castiel still did not return. Dean whiled away his anxiety practising another trick, then another.

 

Two o’clock...

 

Just when Dean was least expecting it, a shady silhouette swept into the alleyway, coat billowing. The figure looked over his shoulder twice, as if checking to see if anyone was following him.

 

“Cas?” Dean called.

 

The figure looked up. Light illuminated the back of his head, and Dean knew at once it was Castiel. Nobody else wore the moon like a halo the way he did.

 

“I’ll be up in a minute,” Castiel said, his voice rough and dry. He looked back over his shoulder one last time, then fled deeper into the alleyway, slinking into the shadows between the dumpster and the grimy black walls.

 

When Dean heard the clack of the key in Castiel’s front door, he put away his playing cards and moved to sit stiffly on his sill, hunched down over his knees. He stared at Castiel’s window. He felt a simmer of anger inside him, mixed so perfectly with relief. How dare Castiel stay away so long?! How dare he let Dean worry like that – not even a note! How could he be so thoughtless—?

 

Castiel opened up his window with a grunt of exertion. He was bedraggled, his coat hanging loose off one shoulder. His hair was a mess, and there was a scrape mark on his left cheek. “Dean,” he breathed.

 

All of the anger went out of Dean in an instant. He went to the barrier of the fire escape, leaning close to see Castiel clearly. “What happened?” Dean asked, hearing tension in his voice. He reached out without thinking, and he felt the bristles of Castiel’s facial hair against his palm. Castiel’s skin was warm, and he felt so solid and bristly and Dean just wanted to bring him close and hold him tight. Arm’s length was too far away.

 

“I, um,” Castiel wet his lips with his tongue. “I got held up. Running an errand.”

 

“You’re hurt...” Dean’s fingertips brushed Castiel’s injury, and Castiel flinched. Dean steeled his jaw and backed away, determined to fix what he could. “That’s it. Get your lily-white ass on this side of the fire escape, you dolt. I got some damage control to do here.”

 

Castiel hesitated, glancing back into his apartment, but he considered Dean’s determined expression and hastily moved to obey.

 

From his kitchen, Dean fetched the small box of bandages and ointments he’d once used to wrap up Sam’s scabbed knees. He came back to the window, and felt his heart start to pound. Castiel stood on Dean’s side of the fire escape for perhaps the fifth or sixth time, ever. Dean always forgot the other man was just as tall as himself. Castiel was broad-shouldered, held himself in an oddly attractive slouch, and when he looked up—

 

Dean couldn’t keep himself from staring. Castiel’s eyes were as blue as the brightest parts of the night sky, and sparkled twice as much. The moonlight had to be playing tricks; there was no way this fellow was real. But he was. Dean put his hand on Castiel’s heart and he was very, very real.

 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said. He tilted his head.

 

“Hey...” Dean ducked his head, coming to his senses. “Uh. Right. Bandages.”

 

“It doesn’t hurt,” Castiel said.

 

“Bullshit,” Dean whispered back. They were inches apart, and his cuss pushed breath over Castiel’s chin. “Where the hell were you, man? What sonofabitch do I need to go beat up?” He yanked a cotton swab free of its box, then pushed Castiel to sit in the windowsill. “Hold still.”

 

Dean ignored Castiel’s frantic blinks while he patted at the injury. The cotton swab came off clean, which was somewhat of a relief, but it led to more questions. “How— _When_ did this even happen?” Dean demanded to know. “It’s healed up already.”

 

“I had a quarrel with a brick wall,” Castiel murmured. “Only a few hours ago...” He blinked. “Wait, what time is it?”

 

“Past two. Sun’ll be up in a couple hours.”

 

Castiel’s raised eyebrows and parted lips informed Dean he’d truly lost track of time.

 

“You’re a dick, you know that?” Dean curled his fingers around Castiel’s chin, encouraging him to look up. “I think I deserve answers.”

 

“I’d gladly tell you what happened, Dean. I can tell you where I was. But do you want the truth?” Castiel peered up at Dean, wearing an expression that would’ve put the world’s most helpless puppydog to shame.

 

Dean put down the medical kit and slowly sat beside Castiel, thigh-to-thigh in the window. Their gaze held fast to one another’s. Castiel wasn’t going to speak until Dean answered.

 

Dean took a breath. A feeling stirred deep inside him, warning him not to ask for the truth. Castiel smelled like danger right now – smoke and bronze and blood – and as enticing as Dean found the scent, and as alluring as it might have been to satisfy his curiosity, he still enjoyed the mystery. If he was to know everything about this man, what would be left to imagine?

 

“I don’t know,” Dean said, finally. He gulped, attention flicking back and forth between Castiel’s eyes. “I honestly don’t know.”

 

Castiel smiled. He smiled like he knew all the secrets in the world and Dean was playing with fire trying to figure him out. There was simply too much behind those eyes for Dean to understand.

 

“Perhaps this might sway you,” Castiel said. He reached into an inner pocket of his trenchcoat, and he pulled out a white handkerchief. There was something delicate wrapped inside; he held the shape in his hand and slowly unfolded the cloth to reveal it...

 

In his palm was cupped a handful of starlight.

 

“Holy shit! Cas...!”

 

Reflections of moonlight glimmered across Castiel’s high-peaked cheeks, shining like contentment in his eyes. Dean looked from Castiel back to his hand. Whatever it was, it was small, and it shone like nothing Dean had ever seen before.

 

“It’s for you,” Castiel said. He handed the handkerchief to Dean, and Dean took it.

 

He peered at the object, and a smirk curled one side of his lips. “A tie pin?”

 

“I know how you like to dress up,” Castiel said. “You always look very smart in the mornings.”

 

“Not lookin’ so smart by the evenings, though,” Dean chuckled.

 

“Oh, no, I find your tousled hair... charming,” Castiel urged, always as honest as nobody else. “But I thought... perhaps...” After a pause, he reached and took the tie pin, which carried on shining like a tiny star as he lifted it to Dean’s chest.

 

Dean held his breath as Castiel undid the pin and fiddled with Dean’s necktie, re-tying it. He was gentle. Sweeping hands, careful touches. His gaze lifted once or twice, but his eyes never met Dean’s – always landing on his lips, then sliding back down.

 

Dean felt the final tug as Castiel finished making the tie sit perfectly under the pin. Dean looked down, and a swirl of pleasure swept through his lower half. The pin was a handsome thing. It wasn’t fancy in design, and at first glance it seemed dull, but Lord in _heaven_ , the way it caught the moonlight was nothing short of fantastic.

 

“Yes,” Castiel said, with a small nod. “It enhances your look rather than overpowers it.”

 

Dean smirked. “Boy. You oughta write for _Vogue_.”

 

“What?” Castiel squinted.

 

Dean bit his lip as he grinned. “Just... nothing. It’s a fashion magazine I subscribe to— Doesn’t matter. Tell me more about the pin.”

 

“It... Um. It makes a fine addition to your appearance. You know, I’ll almost be sad when it goes.”

 

“Goes?”

 

“When you sell it.”

 

“ _Sell it_?” Dean chuckled. “Cas, who do you think I am? Someone gives me somethin’ this pretty, I’m gonna hold onto it. I ain’t selling shit.”

 

“But...” Castiel frowned. “But what was the point, then? I may as well keep the pin myself.”

 

Dean looked into Castiel’s eyes, wondering if he was joking. His jokes weren’t always the easiest to appreciate.

 

Castiel angled himself to face Dean more, a palm held out in an offering gesture. “You sell this, Dean, and you’d have the money you need. We could leave tomorrow, if you wanted.”

 

Dean was only confused for a second, then his lips parted in realisation. It may have been the middle of the night, and he was as worn out as the day itself, but he could still put two and two together. “Cas...” He hung his head, letting go of a long breath. “No. I... I _can’t_. Sam—”

 

“Sam can come too.”

 

Dean thrust his tongue over his lips, tilting his head in pleading and frustration and longing. He was lost for words already.

 

He breathed deeply, in, then out. He shook his head, avoiding Castiel’s eyes. “Look, man. I appreciate this, this thing.” He flicked a hand at the pin. “But _leaving_? What d’you wanna do, hop on a train? Just keep going? The money would run out before the track does.”

 

“No—” Castiel pressed his hand to the pin, inadvertently pressing his hand to Dean’s thumping heart. Breath rushed from Castiel’s lips. “This is real. This is _real_.”

 

For one fanciful second, Dean wasn’t completely sure if Castiel meant the pin, or the way Dean felt about him.

 

Castiel clarified, “It isn’t glass. It’s not a fake, Dean. These are diamonds. Every one is a real gemstone. Selling this would get you enough money to get to the Caribbean, then... I don’t know. Cairo. Mykonos. Anywhere you like. You and me, together.”

 

Dean laughed in a huff. “No. No, c’mon.”

 

“Yes.” Castiel leaned in, fingers curling around Dean’s tie to draw him closer. “I don’t offer you mere fantasies, Dean. I don’t tease. If you tell me you want something, I’m going to do the best I can to make sure you get it.”

 

“You... You don’t have the money for diamonds,” Dean said.

 

Castiel’s eyes flashed with condescension and smugness, and Dean felt a chill run down his spine. Sometimes he forgot that his neighbour was fuelled by emotions and forces unseen. In moments like these, Dean came to doubt the fellow was even human. There was something electric in his gaze.

 

But for Dean, a nonbeliever in every sense, this wasn’t an argument, and nothing Castiel could say could convince him the jewellery was genuine. It was a simple fact: Castiel didn’t have the money for diamonds. Yet, if he couldn’t afford this, where did he get it? How did he hurt himself retrieving it?

 

Dean’s curiosity was quickly overwritten by a more pressing realisation: his reluctance to run away wasn’t really about the money.

 

Oh, how he hated to disappoint a friend. There he was, expected to agree to pack up his life and take to the highway, or some eastbound cruise ship – but he simply couldn’t.

 

Castiel was still waiting for an answer.

 

“Cas,” Dean sighed, pressing his chin to chest. “Listen... I lik-... I love what you gave me. Okay?” He touched the pin, feeling all the fine bumps of the gems set into the gold. “Real or not, this thing is... it’s dazzling. But the truth is—”

 

Dean was silenced by a finger on his lips. He hadn’t expected to kiss Castiel’s fingertip so suddenly, and he was glad for the blue shade of night, else Castiel might have seen the blush that flooded Dean’s face from his neck up.

 

Castiel lowered his finger, and Dean swallowed. “I don’t want to hear the truth,” Castiel said.

 

“Something beautiful, then,” Dean suggested.

 

“Make it spectacular.”

 

Dean swallowed a second time. He couldn’t figure out what to say. Whatever he said next wouldn’t be a glamourous fantasy, it would be a _lie._ There was only one thing he could say now, and for once, Castiel would have to deal with reality. “I’m not ready, Cas,” Dean said firmly. “That’s the truth. I want to go. Anywhere. Everywhere. But...”

 

“You’re not ready,” Castiel repeated, hollowly. He stared sadly at his knees, then shut his eyes and didn’t open them. He nodded. “I understand.”

 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see the point in lying.”

 

Castiel nodded again.

 

Dean set his hand on Castiel’s arm, around the cloth of his trenchcoat. He hoped the pressure would be reassuring. All that aside, he was thrilled by the girth of Castiel’s arm. Those were fine muscles; Dean wished there wasn’t a coat between his hand and Castiel’s skin.

 

Castiel’s hand formed into a fist, curling against the side of Dean’s knee. “I think... perhaps I should get to bed, I’m tired.”

 

Dean retracted his hand. Castiel had spoken gently but Dean knew a rebuff when he heard one. “‘Kay.”

 

Castiel met Dean’s gaze briefly. What a relief it was to see a friendly shine in his eyes. Dean had worried the truth had stung Castiel a bit too hard.

 

“Tomorrow night?” Dean asked, hopeful.

 

“Tomorrow,” Castiel agreed. He moved close, and Dean inhaled softly, lips _expecting_...

 

Castiel paused. They stared.

 

Castiel completed his original movement and stood up, straightening his coat. Dean cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. His blush wasn’t going anywhere.

 

Castiel climbed over the fire escape’s barrier as nimbly as a ballerino, and he simply stepped from the frame to his window like there wasn’t a fifteen-foot drop below him. He could’ve been walking on air.

 

“What were you, a bird in a previous life?” Dean laughed, watching Castiel hop effortlessly through his window and set his feet on the floor.

 

“A jailbird, almost certainly,” Castiel smiled. “Jaybird! Pardon me. Jaybird. I’m more tired than I thought.”

 

Dean snickered, getting to his feet. He imagined Cas nesting on his windowsill, preening a pair of pretty blue wings, and Dean thought the wings would suit him. But the image dissipated: Castiel wasn’t a nesting bird like Dean, he was the kind of bird who yearned to fly away.

 

Castiel gave his one-handed farewell, and closed the window between them. Dean watched him shed his coat, then stride off into the shadow. One by one, lamps came on inside the apartment as Castiel went around the room.

 

But Dean stood unmoving, alone, helpless to control the quiver and downward pull in his lower lip. He turned away as a panicked tear threatened to fall, and he hid his shame in the shadows. It was a single thought that caused Dean’s upset, a daydream he’d stretched an inch too far and hit too close to home: what if Castiel decided to leave? What if he were to spread his wings and fly away to enjoy all the adventures he always sought, and in doing so, left Dean behind?

 

So what?! Castiel had said _once_ that there was nothing that could keep him away from Dean. But would the same hold true if they no longer wanted the same things?

 

Dean took shelter in his apartment, comforted by his brother’s familiar scent, and the smell of good food. He loved these things, he loved having a home where he could bathe and cook and dance alone to love songs on the wireless. It shocked him to know that for all his fantasies, all the countless daydreams of wonderful sights and experiences, he’d never considered that they could become reality. And for them to become reality, Dean would have to move away from the comforts he had, things he’d worked hard to get so that Sam could have a decent life. Suddenly it wasn’t only Castiel who was afraid of loss.

 

Dean ran his finger along the line of shining gems clipped on his tie, over and over until the pad of his finger went numb. Within his overworked mind, it seemed logical to think that his entire future rested on whether Castiel had been honest tonight. Either these were truly gemstones – and this gift could let all of Dean’s dreams come true _and_ tear apart his whole world, all in one – or they were merely beautiful, and nothing more. If so, everything would go back to normal. Dean would come home at night, his tie held neatly in place, and he and Castiel could go on dreaming forever.

  
«··· ✧✦✧ ···»


	3. Dark Places, Shiny Pin

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Dean drawled, clapping Sam on the shoulder and serving him a plate of sausages, egg, and severely underdeveloped asparagus. “Sorry about the greens. Here’s guessing Mother Nature didn’t think too kindly of this week’s market. Couldn’t afford the big ‘uns.”

 

“It’s fine,” Sam said gratefully, cutting the egg-white with the side of his fork. “Thank you.”

 

“Boy, do you look tuckered out,” Dean observed, pulling out a chair opposite his brother. “How was work? Have a good night?”

 

Sam blinked hard, shrugging a shoulder as he stuffed food into his mouth. “Nothing special. Judge Singer was forthright and gruff – piles of paperwork – what’s new? He actually apologised for making me work nights, you believe that?”

 

“You get paid yet?”

 

Sam inclined his head. “Day after tomorrow.”

 

Dean gave a small sigh of relief. He looked down, his fingers touching the pin that was clipped to his tie. He stroked it, taking comfort from its presence, although he remained haunted by its potential.

 

Sam glanced up. When Dean noticed him staring, he saw there was a bar of early-morning sunlight reflected across the bridge of Sam’s nose.

 

“Cas,” Dean said in explanation.

 

“Looks expensive,” Sam said, narrowing his eyes.

 

“Yeah.” Dean licked his lips. “It does, doesn’t it.”

 

“Charlie ought to take a quick gander,” Sam suggested.

 

“You think she should?” Dean peered at Sam with anxious eyes. “What am I meant to say to Cas if it _is_ the real McCoy? Thanks for blowing your life savings on glitter, pal; that was a bad move? Won’t _that_ make me a wet blanket.”

 

Sam was smiling. “No way they’re _all_ real,” he said playfully. “Come on. Those gems are glass. Castiel obviously pays a fair bit of rent to live on this block, but unless he’s heir to some secret fortune, he’s as broke as we are.”

 

“You’d think, right?” Dean huffed at the jewellery, fiddling with his tie. “But then he goes and gives me this... He came home beat up, too. Said something about a brick wall. Christ, he’s such a goose. He floats like a ghost on stilts when he’s home; can’t even walk straight when he’s out. He keeps telling me stories where he gets all lost and overwhelmed, being out in the open, talkin’ to strangers. The guy can’t even get groceries without knocking something over or getting into a fight with some poor pastry chef over a _pie_. God knows how he’d travel the world. He needs someone with him to read the map and ask for directions. He’s hopeless.” Dean gazed absentmindedly at the dining table, smiling to himself.

 

Sam set down his fork, patting at his mouth with a napkin. “It’s almost six o’clock. You should get to work.”

 

“Mm.” Dean stared at the tie pin again, apprehension churning inside him. “Hey... Sam?”

 

“Hm? What?”

 

Dean tried to school away his troubled expression, but it wouldn’t go. “Look, I just... I gotta ask somethin’. Be honest with me.”

 

“All right.”

 

Dean breathed in, steeling himself. “Say – theoretically – you and I suddenly came into a lot of money. More than you could imagine. The kind of money that meant you never have to worry about anything again.”

 

Sam smiled like it was silly idea, but he said nothing and waited for Dean to finish.

 

“You and I, we just _wandered_ all our lives,” Dean said, eyes drifting away. Memories coated the back of his tongue, and he breathed in the smell of unwashed motel bedsheets and burned motor oil. “You know as well as I do how much it means to be livin’ here, Sammy. Don’t get me wrong. Steady job – who wouldn’t wanna be a government law clerk, right? Shoe-shiner? Everything’s peachy.”

 

“Uh-huh...?” Sam encouraged.

 

“But what about the rest of the world?” Dean asked, leaning forward, both hands on the table. “We’ve seen every road in this godforsaken country twice over, but we ain’t ever seen what’s past the shore. If we had the money, wouldn’t you wanna go? See everything.”

 

“You mean an _Around the World in Eighty Days_ sort of thing?”

 

“More like eighty _years_ , between the three of us,” Dean breathed. “You, me, and Cas. We leave and never come back.” His eyes were wide and he felt his heartbeat pulsing in his throat. He hadn’t bargained for this: now he’d pitched the idea to Sam, he wanted it. It _hurt_ how much he wanted it.

 

“Where’s this money supposed to be coming from?” Sam asked.

 

Dean’s lips moved, but he couldn’t breathe out a sound. His fingers moved along the tie pin unconsciously – but Sam noticed.

 

Sam’s gaze rose from the pin to Dean’s eyes. His smile had all but slipped away. “That little thing? You can’t be serious. You honestly think any of that is possible?”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t _know_ , Sam,” Dean muttered, watery eyes lifting to the ceiling. “Living in New York City was a lofty dream until ol’ Bobby Singer offered you the law clerk position. And me working regular hours, in daylight! _That_ was a lofty dream until a packet of money came and slipped under the door. Someone always ends up helping us out, Sammy. It’s other people – friends and strangers – they’re the ones who help us Winchesters make our way in life. It’s not what we plan for but it’s how things always turn out. What if this is our next lofty dream, huh? What if Cas is the next Uncle Bobby?”

 

Sam snorted at that comparison. But he carried on smiling, eyes down. “Didn’t think you were the sort to chase after a sugar daddy.”

 

“Shut up, I’m not like that,” Dean muttered, one hand clutched around the tie pin. “Look... Me ‘n you worked like crazy to make your dream come true. Law school, job in New York. You got it. But...” Dean sucked on the back of his lips, reluctant to say something too brash.

 

“But what about _your_ dream,” Sam finished quietly. He met Dean’s eyes, and they shared a conversation wordlessly. It didn’t take Sam five seconds to understand how dearly Dean longed to take to the skies, or the sea, or any other direction there was to go.

 

“This is still all theory, though,” Dean admitted, sinking back in his chair. He felt himself vibrating ever so slightly. “I’m gettin’ ahead of myself. I’m going on Cas’ word, he said this thing’s diamond.”

 

“Charlie will tell you what it’s made of,” Sam assured him.

 

Dean nodded, slowly getting to his feet. He licked his lips again, peering down at his brother. “You didn’t answer my question. Would you come? Leave this all behind. Just travel.”

 

Sam lowered his eyes, examining his empty dinner plate. He breathed in and out a few times, and the apartment was quiet, motionless as he pondered.

 

Then he looked up. He smirked softly – sadly, almost. “No.”

 

“ _No_?!”

 

“Hear me out! Just hear me out, okay? I have a reason.” Sam inhaled, and began, “A few more years and I – I’ll be _thirty_ , Dean. Three decades old. But I’m still a child. Your child.” Dean’s lips parted, but he couldn’t argue. Sam went on, “You still make my supper, pack my lunch, cut my hair. You were _four_ when Mom died. I was only a baby. You were meant to be my big brother, not my parent.”

 

Dean sank down into his dining chair again, gazing steadily at Sam.

 

Sam reached to touch Dean’s wrist. “I enjoy my life here. Like you said, this was my dream. But I wouldn’t say no to going one step further. And I don’t mean leaving. I think it’s time you got the chance to – I don’t know – regress, be a child for once in your life. Have fun. See some exciting things. And in the meantime, I’d get my chance to grow _up_ , finally. If you were gone, I’d have some real independence.”

 

Dean sighed. “Okay, fine. Fair point, Sammy, but come on! You’re just saying that! This is the trip of a lifetime we’re talking about. Think about it harder, okay? Sleep on it.”

 

Sam shook his head. “I don’t need to. I’ve thought about this a fair bit already. You talk about Cas and your big ideas so often, it’s hard not to wonder.”

 

Tears simmered in Dean’s eyes, and he worked his jaw, trying to swallow down the horrible lump he felt there. “Y- You really wanna stay? Here. In New York.”

 

“Yeah.” Sam gripped Dean’s wrist harder and shook it gently. “All that lovesick caterwauling you and Castiel do, it has nothing to do with me. Hey— _Hey_. Dean, look at me. Listen. If that theoretical boatload of money ever does land in your lap, you promise me you’ll take it, okay? You and Cas, you’ll have each other. Just go wherever your hearts lead you.”

 

“Oh, _now_ who’s the lovesick caterwauler,” Dean uttered. “You make it sound like we’re lovers or something. Jeez, he just got me a gift, Sammy, that don’t make us into somethin’ we’re not.”

 

Sam rolled his eyes and affectionately ruffled Dean’s hair, the way Dean often did to Sam. Dean laughed, head down. He felt all rough and raw inside, and his eyes stung with unshed tears.

 

“You’re late for work,” Sam reminded Dean, patting him one last time on the neck. “Hurry up or Charlie might charge you for examining those gems.”

 

“Crap,” Dean said, getting to his feet on unsteady legs. He rushed around the apartment, donning his tweed cap, fixing his hair in the bathroom mirror, checking his waistcoat buttons were done up. He strode towards the front door. “This outfit look all right?”

 

Sam turned around in his chair to check over Dean’s brown-grey work suit, and he gave a nod of approval. “If that pin turns out to be worthless after all, at least you could say it makes you _look_ a million dollars.”

 

Dean grinned, tipped his cap to Sam, then hurried out the door.

 

«··· ✧✦✧ ···»

 

There were dark places in New York City. Places the light barely reached, where the alleyways narrowed and the store fronts were crammed closer together. The smell was enough to make a man retch, but Dean had taught himself to breathe shallow. He could walk into this dank corner of hell every morning on his way to work, and it was nothing more than routine for him. He was lucky he had a place to go. The beggars at the sides of the street weren’t so well off.

 

It was strange, but... in these shadows, Dean felt safe. There were people in this small community who he knew, as lovers and as friends. They had to hide from the light and they couldn’t all leave the city, but they were supported here. They all shared similar secrets.

 

Laundry lines hung criss-crossed between the windows of every floor above; pigeons perched on the cables, huddled up between sparrows. None of the laundry was fully clean. Dean felt drooping shirt sleeves brushing over the top of his cap, and he ducked his head to avoid dragging the clothes with him.

 

In other places of the city Dean looked like a lowly workman, but down here? Down here he was a prince. A good-quality tweed cap was akin to a crown.

 

Eyes followed Dean as he made his way through the stagnated air. He turned his head towards the catcalls, offering a smile and nothing more. Prostitutes, gigolos and hustlers – all their eyes followed Dean. Sam never knew, but Dean had been one of these people, only a handful of years ago. Dean sensed there was lingering resentment in the atmosphere whenever he returned, but nobody ever laid a hand on him.

 

For many, the fact he stood tall and walked with pride was a symbol of hope. If Dean Winchester made it out – red-kneed, six-tricks-a-night _Dean Winchester_ – then there was a fighting chance for everyone else. Nobody wanted to be here.

 

In a slimy, moss-draped corner of a popular alley, there was a pawnbrokers’ shop without a sign on its front. Diamond-shaped bars covered the front panes of glass, and the glass was so thick with grime it looked like a long-forgotten fishtank.

 

Dean opened the door, entered and closed it behind him, and at last took a breath, drawing air deep into his lungs. The shop smelled like old books, heat-burned dust, and furniture polish, and the combination made up one of Dean’s favourite smells. This nameless cubby was a second home to him.

 

“You’re late, Winchester,” Billie said from behind the front desk, not looking up from her log book. Her voluminous black hair flowed like a lion’s mane about her shoulders, and today she wore wooden beads in layers around her neck. She smiled covertly when she heard Dean’s mutter of apology.

 

“Morning, Dean,” Charlie said, walking past with a battered cardboard box in her arms. She wore her usual beaded cocktail dress, this one green, offsetting her red hair in an eye-catching way. “There’s stuff to put away. Gimme a hand.”

 

Dean took off his cap and hung it on the coat stand by the door, then went to help his friend with the new delivery. “Taxidermy,” he said under his breath, seeing what was in the boxes.

 

“Some ancient dame,” Charlie said. “Her husband passed, she’s got nothing to go on now.”

 

“Pity,” Dean replied, picking up a stuffed parrot, gazing with immense distrust into its glassy eyes. “God, these things make my skin crawl.”

 

“Funny, I think the same whenever I look at you,” Billie said from the desk. She still hadn’t looked up.

 

Dean sneered in Billie’s direction. “Ha, ha, that’s hilarious.”

 

Billie lifted her eyebrows. Although her face didn’t move, her eyes flicked to stare at Dean. She smiled like a cat, and Dean smirked back. They got along okay.

 

The thoughtful voice of Cassie Robinson emanated from the back of the shop: “Does anyone know a better word for ‘risky’? I already used that.”

 

“‘Dangerous’?” Dean said, putting the taxidermied parrot on a top shelf, high above antique books and gleaming ornaments. “‘Perilous’.”

 

“What bit are you writing now?” Charlie asked.

 

“I’m at the part about not getting arrested.” Cassie stood up and rounded the desk, both hands holding a few sheets of paper. She forced a trailing tangle of black curls behind one ear, muttering to herself, “Hm. I need to add a first-hand account. Otherwise it’s just an observation piece.”

 

“What’s this?” Dean asked curiously, looking from Cassie to Charlie and back.

 

Cassie chewed on the end of her pen, then lifted her coal-black eyes to meet Dean’s. “ _You_ know about street-walking,” she said, teasing yet serious. “Maybe I should interview you.”

 

“Cassie’s writing an article on the queer underground of New York,” Charlie said, examining a stuffed dove’s backside. “Here’s hoping this one’s the goldmine.”

 

“Well, I’m not!” Dean retorted. “Jeez, can’t you write about something that’s not gonna get us killed? Or worse – arrested?”

 

“The press won’t buy my usual beat!” Cassie snapped. “I need my big scoop, I need something no pasty-faced hack dares touch!” The soft and friendly quality in her face shattered to reveal a snarl, “If I don’t make rent next week I’m _out_. And what about my mama, what then?”

 

Dean stepped back, hands up. “I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely meaning it. “But, _Jesus_ , Cassie, I’m not going to dance in that limelight you’re shining for – for queer hustlers in the big apple! I’m not... That wasn’t a good time in my life, okay? The less I think about it, the better.”

 

Cassie squinted, then scribbled Dean’s words down on her paper.

 

Dean sighed, shoulders slumping. “You know more than enough about me. Just make the interview up. But don’t you _dare_ credit me.” He looked towards Charlie. “How many more of these dead birds we got?”

 

“Just the two boxes,” Charlie said. She straightened up, stroking her hands down her fashionable flapper’s haircut. “You should do the interview, Dean,” she added. “Talking about it might help you come to terms with your past.”

 

“There’s nothing to come to terms with,” Dean said, arms wide. “I let the johns do whatever they liked for whatever price I named. I did that five, six times every night and there was food on the table. I supported Sam until he started supporting me, and now it’s over. I never told Sam what I did, and I never will. That’s it. It ain’t complicated.”

 

Cassie scratched her pen nib into her paper mercilessly, her teeth biting into her lower lip.

 

“You’re shameless, you know that?” Dean uttered in Cassie’s direction.

 

“Uh-huh,” Cassie replied, wiping a splash of ink off her dark brown skin. “What did it feel like?”

 

Dean blanked for a moment. “What? Having a dick up my ass?”

 

Cassie shrugged. “Any of it.”

 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Just... shitty. In every sense of the word. It was fun at first. _Thrilling_ , you know? But after a while, it... it kinda stops being sex, and it’s just work. Actually...” He lowered his chin, a frown of consternation pinching between his eyebrows. “It kind of ruins the whole idea. Of sex.”

 

His eyes moved to watch Cassie writing. She was still as independent and heart-driven as she had been when she and Dean were a couple; sometimes it seemed like Dean breaking up with her had barely affected their friendship. She moved her pen and frowned, all business-like, but despite her apparent callousness, Dean was certain she still cared. It took her a while to finish writing Dean’s quote, and then, at last, she registered its meaning. Her lips parted, and she looked up at Dean with unspoken apologies in her eyes.

 

Dean parted his lips with the tip of his tongue, and he looked away. “I haven’t... uh. Since.”

 

Cassie stared at the side of Dean’s face for an extended moment, and only after Dean cleared his throat and turned away did Cassie begin writing again.

 

“You okay?” Charlie asked, touching Dean’s wrist.

 

Dean nodded. “M-hm. Like I said. It’s over now.” He smiled, thinking of the future. “Who knows. That was, what, five years ago? Think how much has changed since then. Five years from now, I could be miles from here.”

 

“Yeah?” Charlie’s lipsticked smile turned crooked, perhaps in disbelief. “Where do you want to go?”

 

“Where would _you_ go? Say you played your aces right, and you had all the money in the world, where would you go?”

 

Charlie looked surprised. “Go? Nowhere.” She cocked her head towards Cassie, then over at Billie. “There’s people here I’d help.”

 

Dean let out a breath, staring at the empty box he was mid-way through folding up. Charlie was right. How selfish would be to leave with Cas, abandoning everyone who needed him here? Dean looked around, first gazing at Cassie, who was flipping through her notes, then at Billie, who was still busy balancing the shop’s accounts. Charlie left Dean’s side to get back to work, and Dean stared after her.

 

Sometimes – nearly every day – new customers would come into the pawn shop, and they’d automatically assume Dean was the proprietor. He’d tell them he was only the shoe-shine boy – entertainer on the side – but when Dean introduced the customer to the real boss, Billie, it took some convincing before the truth could be believed.

 

Two bosses, both women, one of them black... that was unusual for a man as white as Dean.

 

The fourth in the shop – Cassie – she wasn’t employed here, she just... _worked_ here. Her mother was white but she got her father’s dark complexion and wild hair, and customers often shot her disapproving looks while she got on with her writing. Dean could only assume that if he wasn’t around to talk down the most bigoted of buyers, the shop might only do half as well.

 

See, in places like this, on the vague border between Harlem and Sugar Hill, where black folks and poor white folks shared space, the mad roar of the city was quieter. The parties were exclusionary, the music was muffled, and alcohol was harder to find since Prohibition started, even though it came cheap. The idea of being a flapper was a fantastic dream for many of the girls here. Some of Dean’s beer-drinking acquaintances held strong to the idea that their struggles would soon worsen; in the past few years the rich had only gotten richer along with the boom of credit payments, the poor had gotten poorer as job opportunities diminished, and the poorest of the lot were those with dark skin. They rarely heard a kind word, either.

 

As poor folks were forced to sell their nicer things and the rich sought to buy them, business in the pawnbrokers’ shop had naturally flourished. But that didn’t mean the staff was well-off. Cassie, Charlie, and Billie all had siblings or parents at home who needed financial support. Everyone was struggling, but the idea was that they struggled together. They were part of a larger community, and the people in the community helped each other out when they could. That was why Dean still worked here, not in the centre city, banging nails into a half-completed skyscraper. The people here were family to him.

 

Dean couldn’t leave these folks behind just to chase after a fantasy... could he?

 

“Legs stopped working, Winchester?” Billie asked, stirring Dean from his daydream. “There’s sweeping to be done, boy. Get to it.”

 

“What? Oh. Yeah.” Dean put down the flattened box, resting it against a glass-fronted bookshelf. “My mind wandered off.”

 

“Well, call it back,” Billie replied. “I don’t pay you to stare into space.”

 

“You also don’t pay me to sweep the floor,” Dean reminded her. “Shoe-shining only, ma’am. That’s what I’m paid for. And maybe a card trick or two.”

 

Billie gave Dean a subtle smile. They both knew Billie slipped a little extra into Dean’s wages, but neither had ever mentioned it aloud. There was a peculiar element of power-play charged between them, and toying, vicious banter made up most of their interactions. Dean liked it like that. He’d seen enough black folks being treated like dirt to appreciate how different the same words could sound, coming from a friend. Billie was the only person in the world Dean didn’t mind bossing him around.

 

Dean swept the floor, as he’d been told to do, but he couldn’t keep his mind from drifting. He couldn’t think about anything but Cas, Cas, Cas. _What if_ s and open-ended questions floated through his head, and by the time the floor was brushed free of dust bunnies, Dean’s thoughts had been through a tunnel graffitied with moral dilemmas, and he’d come out the other side with his mind made up.

 

“Charlie,” he said, putting away his broom. “Charlie, I need to ask a favour.”

 

“Hm?” Charlie looked up from Cassie’s stack of papers. “Give me a second, I’m almost finished reading this.”

 

“How is it?” Cassie asked Charlie anxiously, twirling her pen in her fingers. “Is it okay?”

 

“Mmm... I mean, it reads well,” Charlie nodded. “You’re a great reporter. I just don’t know about the topic. Honestly – Dean’s right, Cassie. This is going to get someone killed. If anything, the fuzz will be marching up and down our side of town every night if this gets published. I’ve overheard enough beatings and lynchings for ten lifetimes, I don’t need to hear more.”

 

“I have to take _risks_ ,” Cassie insisted, touching her report protectively with her hand. “I have to write from close to my heart, you know? Something big happens in this city and you can bet your ass the first people to get the scoop are the big-shots with money to pay for taxicabs, who get to the scene of the crime first. White, friendly faces you can _really_ talk to. Ugh. All I get are the scraps. I can’t _support_ myself like this, let alone look after my mama.”

 

“We’ll help you,” Billie said plainly, turning her head to look over her shoulder at Cassie. “You wouldn’t put anyone from this sorry shithole in danger, not for a one-time scoop.”

 

Cassie took back her article and lowered her eyes, staring at it.

 

“We got enough dough between us to keep you afloat, honey,” Billie assured Cassie. She then turned her back to the others, returning to her work. “You need something, you ask.”

 

“I’m not your charity case, Billie,” Cassie huffed, folding up her article with a bothered expression. “I’ve kept our heads above water since I was old enough to hold a pen. Writing is the only thing I can do well. You _know_ I won’t give it up easy.”

 

“Whatever, girl. Just don’t sell out our friends. Your pride ain’t worth their lives.”

 

Cassie stuffed her article into her satchel, palming her forehead in a frustrated way. Her shoulders sagged in defeat; she knew Billie was right. Her article would never see the light of day.

 

Dean wished he could offer Cassie something she could accept without knocking her sense of self-sufficiency, but until he knew what this tie pin was made of, he didn’t have a dime going spare.

 

“Charlie,” Dean said again. “I need you to check something for me. A bit of jewelry. I need to know how much it’s worth.”

 

Charlie blinked at Dean in surprise.

 

Dean began to undo the pin from his tie. In the dim light of the shop, it looked nearly as dull as burnished brass. But Dean had faith that at least one gem of the twenty was genuine. Castiel had seemed so convinced.

 

Charlie took the pin, running her thumb over its ridged face. “It’s beautiful,” she remarked, some astonishment in her voice.

 

“You should see it in moonlight,” Dean smiled. He thought of Castiel’s hands, moving around his throat to do up his tie. Dean flushed with pleasure at the memory: the heat of a man’s body on a warm summer night, bright blue eyes caught in a silver shine.

 

Charlie fetched her equipment: a pair of goggle-like fixtures which fitted over her head so she could see the jewels up close. She carried the pin to the big wooden desk where the cash register sat. Cassie followed at her heels, craning interestedly over the desk. Billie leaned in too. Charlie turned on a bright lamp, lighting up their silhouettes.

 

Dean hovered at the women’s backs, stepping to and fro, unable to find a way into the huddle.

 

“You can tell it’s real gold by the way it scratches,” Charlie said, impressed. “This base is near flawless.”

 

Dean’s heart leapt. Even if the gems were glass, the setting was real gold. Yellow gold was not in vogue at present, but regardless, its existence excited him.

 

“My, my, my,” Billie muttered brightly.

 

“Haven’t seen clear gems cut this fine for years,” Charlie said. “Hang on...”

 

Dean moved to the front of the desk opposite the women, leaning forward into the wood so he became part of the huddle. The lamp light was bright enough to make his eyes water. He could see already that these gems were going to be special. Glass simply couldn’t gleam that way, as though it was creating its own light. There was a miniature star in Charlie’s fingers, surely.

 

Charlie adjusted her loupe goggles, flipping down another set of magnifying lenses. A smile flickered on the corner of her lips, and she shook her head in wonder. “My God.”

 

“What?” Dean breathed. “What is it? Are they real?”

 

“Shh-shh,” Charlie hushed. She breathed in a huff over the pin, quickly looking for fog. “Four... _five_...”

 

Either side of Charlie’s head of red hair, Billie and Cassie shared a knowing look. Dean didn’t know anywhere near as much about gems as they did; he was only the shoe-shine boy. He wished he knew what they knew. He wished he knew what they were thinking.

 

“Eight...” Charlie’s voice became strained, and her hands seemed to be shaking. “No... See, that speck, there... Unbelieveable.”

 

“Beautifully cloudy,” Billie mentioned quietly.

 

“Cloudy specks,” Dean repeated. “Diamonds aren’t meant to be— Are they fake?”

 

“Diamonds? Real diamonds are full of tiny imperfections,” Billie explained, pushing her tresses of bushy hair away from her cheeks so Dean could see her. “They’re rocks.”

 

“They’re also not as rare as you think,” Cassie added. “Jewellery manufacturers drive up the prices for profit. I wrote an article on it once. Unpublished.”

 

Dean’s heart clenched. “Wait, it’s not worth anything? Even real diamonds?”

 

“These aren’t diamonds,” Charlie said, glancing up. Her eyes were huge, blinking at Dean through the lenses she wore. “They look like diamonds and act like diamonds. But what you have here are twenty utterly perfect white sapphires.”

 

“White sapphires,” Dean echoed. He didn’t know what to feel. His palms were sweating.

 

Slowly, Charlie lifted up the goggles, ruining her hairdo. She stood up straight beside the other women, and the three of them stared at Dean. “Twenty tiny, perfect white sapphires,” Charlie said again, “encased and mounted on a genuine gold tie pin. Early eighteen-hundreds, I’m thinking. I’ll need to do an acid test to figure out how many karats the gold is. But looking at it, I’d say upward of twenty. Which is good quality, by the way. It’s pure.”

 

Dean gulped.

 

“Where did you get this, Dean?” Charlie asked, looking astounded. “These gems are worth... two, maybe three hundred dollars, even without the gold pin base. No way you have that sort of money. Where the hell did it come from?”

 

A huff of breath escaped Dean’s trembling lips. “Th- Three hundred?” It was so much less than he’d imagined and hoped, but it was still much, much more than he’d ever had in his life, at least all at once. “That’s a whole year’s wages, tips included...”

 

“Dean,” Billie said sharply. “Where did this come from?”

 

Dean’s eyes darted to Billie, then back to Charlie. “It— It was Cas. My neighbour – Trumpet Boy. He gave it to me last night.”

 

Charlie began to smile. “Aw. How romantic.”

 

“Romantic?” Dean couldn’t help but smile, one hand moving to touch the back of his neck; he felt the heat of a blush flooding him. “You think so?” he asked, ever so quietly.

 

“Oh, yeah.” Charlie nodded, leaning forward on her elbows across the desktop, playing with the tie pin between her fingers. “Absolutely.”

 

“He...” Dean put a hand over his mouth and exhaled between his fingers. “I can’t believe he gave me that thing. I can’t believe he spent all that _money_ on me. God, I don’t know what to give him in return. You know how me and Cas talk – packing up, running off together. He – heh... He actually asked me last night, he said he wants me to go with him.” He gestured at the tie pin, “And he gave me that. He said I should sell it. But...” He looked up, meeting each of his friends’ eyes in turn, returning last to Charlie, as she was dearest to Dean. “I’m changing my mind every five minutes. I don’t know what to do. I can’t just _leave_ you. Right now I can’t imagine going anywhere. Not if it means abandoning you. All of you.”

 

“Dean,” Charlie breathed. She tilted her head and gave him a soft-eyed look, expressing how touching she found his words.

 

“You know what you should give Trumpet Boy?” Billie said, one eyebrow quirked. “Maybe it ain’t worth three hundred dollars, but it’s well within your means. Give him a night better than any night he’s had in years. You boys need to light yourselves up like the Fourth of July.”

 

Dean rolled his eyes away. “Yeah. Right. Where am I gonna get some decent moonshine around here? The Blind Pig went down when Gilda’s bookshop folded. And the bottles under my bed are empty.”

 

Billie winked at Dean – and Dean heard the click of a lock. His eyes dropped to Billie’s waist height, where her hands had disappeared inside the desk’s top drawer. She pulled out a polished, dark bottle.

 

“Wine?”

 

“Ain’t having this baby on display with the rest of the junk in here,” Billie muttered, placing the bottle on the desk and locking up the drawer again. “If I’m going to jail for anything, it’s for getting caught licking pussy, not pawning Prohibition wine.”

 

Dean gingerly reached to touch the wine bottle. He felt a thrill as the glass went smoothly under his fingers; oh, how he’d missed that feeling. He hesitated. He drew back. “How much do you want for this?”

 

“Nothing,” Billie said. She stared Dean down. “Nothing except your word that you’ll stay. I’m in no mood to interview some other shoe-shine boy, just hoping he’ll have a box of playing cards and a quick hand.”

 

Dean worked his jaw, staring at the bottle. If he took it for Cas, he’d have to tell him he’d agreed to remain in New York.

 

“Dean,” Charlie said softly. “Ignore what Billie says. Forget about us. You’ve talked about travelling for years, ever since you met Cas. You said it yourself – in five years time, you want to be miles from here. You can’t take everyone you meet with you. We love you, we’ll always love you – but if it’s time to move on, _move on_.”

 

Dean’s hand twitched towards the neck of the bottle, but again, he hung back. He looked to Cassie, wanting her input.

 

“Don’t look at _me_ ,” Cassie said smartly, folding her arms. “Those are your damn white sapphires, you spend your money on whatever you like. Nobody here’s surprised you like Trumpet Boy more than us.”

 

Dean swallowed, running his fingers over his forehead. “I don’t like him _more_ than you. I like him _different_ to you. I just... Look...”

 

He’d spent all but the first four years of his life putting other people’s needs before his own. Leaving with Cas would be his first, maybe _only_ chance to put himself and his desires first. But he couldn’t say that out loud, not to his present company. They were equally as selfless, but, being women, bringing similar plans into fruition would never be as easy.

 

“I know what’s most important to me in the long run,” Dean said. “It’s Sam. But Sam wants me to go. He made a good argument for why I _should_ go. And _God_ , do I want to go. That oughta be enough.” He shook his head slowly. “And yet...”

 

“Oh, enough whining.” Billie pushed the wine into his hand. “Take this, drink Trumpet Boy under the table. Make your mind up later. Just know I’ll be cursing your every step across this planet if you set foot outside this city.” She closed her fist around Dean’s fingers, making sure he gripped the bottle.

 

Dean held the bottle’s base to his chest, looking down at the label. It looked old and expensive. Whether or not Dean would have a solid answer for Castiel tonight, at the very least, they’d have something precious to share.

  
«··· ✧✦✧ ···»


	4. Secrets, Wine and Sandwiches

“White sapphires?”

 

“White sapphires.” Dean ran his thumb over the tie pin for the two-hundredth time, tension around his lips. “Whoever sold you this thing gave you the runaround, man.”

 

Despite the financial hit he had to have taken, Castiel didn’t seem too bothered. “I’ll find something else. Real diamonds.”

 

“Cassie says diamonds aren’t worth too much.”

 

Castiel shrugged. “Then I’ll get lots of them. They’re not hard to find.”

 

Dean tilted his head, giving Castiel a curious look. Beyond the fire escape, Castiel lounged in his window as carelessly as a dozing cat, one bare foot dangling down to rest against the sun-warmed bricks. “You seem awful calm about this,” Dean observed. “Where’s this money coming from? How are you paying for these things?”

 

Castiel looked up and met Dean’s eyes. Sunset caressed his jaw and cast shadows across his angular face, drowning one eye in near-obscurity. The scratch on his cheek was healing. He wore a knowing smile – and it bore the same hint of smugness as the previous night.

 

“Fine, don’t tell me,” Dean said, acting offended. But even the act faded away as Castiel stayed silent. Castiel gazed long into the distance, straight into the sunset. His eyes closed gradually, and he drew in a full breath. A hot gust of wind travelled between the buildings and flashed through his hair, pushing the dark brown strands in a wave back over his head. He could’ve been standing on the prow of a ship, sailing into the west. Dean wished they were closer, and they could sail together.

 

“Cas,” Dean said, his mouth suddenly dry. “Cas, I gotta confess something.”

 

Castiel turned his gaze on Dean and waited.

 

“I made my decision,” Dean began. “Whether to go with you, or stay here.”

 

Castiel sat up straighter. It was almost imperceptible, but Dean noticed. Castiel wouldn’t dare miss a word of this.

 

“I, uh,” Dean licked his lips. He looked into his lap and twisted his fingers together, stroking one thumb with the other. “I’m going to keep this tie pin you gave me. I want to _wear_ it. It’s... it’s nice. It’s the only real decent thing I own.” His mind skipped ahead, and he felt the need to add, “I know that makes me sound vain, like I care more about how I look than how my life goes. But— I want so many things, Cas. I usually go through my day thinkin’ about things I want and immediately discarding the thought – because I know I’ll never have that, whatever ‘that’ is. If I’m gonna be selfish for once in my life, keepin’ the pin is the lesser of two evils, if the alternative is leaving New York. Maybe someday I’ll sell this pin, help out my friends.

 

“But what I want, ultimately, beyond experiences or material things – what I want is what I already have.” Dean swallowed, looking up at Castiel with pleading in his eyes. “My brother’s safe, he’s taken care of. He wants to stay. I got money coming in, I got friends who I count as family. I got running water, and food, and I— I got you. I come home and you’re always here.

 

“And besides – what if the world off this rock isn’t like how we imagined, Cas? Isn’t it most perfect the way we dream it is?”

 

Castiel stayed still and quiet, watching Dean with an unreadable face. Dean wished he would show some sign of emotion, something to give him away – but when he did, it hurt Dean deeply. Castiel’s jaw tightened and he tipped his head like he didn’t care, turning his eyes away, but Dean knew – he _knew_ – Castiel was about as disappointed as it was possible to be.

 

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, and he meant it more now that Castiel wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Part of me still wants to go. But my head is just telling me, this ain’t right. I’m not the kinda person who runs off and leaves my family behind. I don’t know why it even took me so long to figure that out. It should’ve been instinct.”

 

Castiel nodded, chin down to his chest.

 

Dean took a deep breath, wanting to continue, but Castiel had lifted his trumpet to his lips. He began to play something quiet and sad, and Dean felt his heart _clench_. Castiel had never played sad things before. Bittersweet, yes – and the pensive sort of melancholy, of course, nearly every night – but never sad.

 

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered.

 

This wasn’t the time to offer wine. He couldn’t stay for this. He slipped off his window ledge and back into his apartment. He stood for a moment, watching Castiel’s frown and the too-hard grip of his hand around his trumpet, but then Dean had to turn away.

 

He returned a minute later and closed the window.

 

«··· ✧✦✧ ···»

 

Throughout the weekend, Castiel did not return to his window ledge. There was no movement and no lights on inside at all. Dean waited up both nights, assuming Cas was just away from home, finding himself a new job, or maybe buying diamonds to impress Dean again.

 

No, no... nothing that drastic. In all likelihood he had probably gotten engrossed in a book and forgot to leave the library at the end of the day. Dean smiled at the thought. Worst case, Castiel had picked another fight with a brick wall. Whatever that meant.

 

Dean worried about his absent friend – it was only natural – but he had faith Castiel would make it home eventually, hopefully in one piece. Though it was nearly healed, Castiel’s busted cheek had been nowhere near as bad as the war injuries Dean had dressed years ago. A healing touch as magical as Dean’s could never be lost in time. Nowadays he would care for a papercut as attentively as he would for a broken leg. When men got hurt, their pride and their confidence often ached far worse than their bodies; they needed a smile and reassurance more than bandages. Dean was good at providing both. As each night of the weekend wore on, he repeatedly envisioned helping Castiel dress a wound, or holding an ice pack against a bruise while Castiel lay his head on Dean’s lap. Though he was ever-present behind Dean’s closed eyes, the real Castiel never showed.

 

Towards the end of the weekend, Dean stayed up late reading a book, sitting in his favourite place: the windowsill. The sun went down, and Dean couldn’t see the words on the page any more. He was about to get up, draw himself a bath and have a good soak while reading – but all at once, the indecipherable words became clear. Dean looked up from his book, he realised the lamps were coming on inside Castiel’s apartment. Dean’s heart leapt.

 

When did Cas get home? How did he sneak in so quietly, didn’t he use the front door? Why wasn’t he coming to the window? He _always_ came to the window first whenever he got home...

 

Dean saw a shadow move; he watched with a breaking heart as Castiel fed his little goldfish, speaking to it gently. Dean ached to know what a man like Castiel would say to his pet fish. For a split second, Dean was jealous that the fish got to hear his voice.

 

Dean had never really had the chance to miss Castiel before. He was always just _there_ , whenever Dean wanted to see him. And now he’d drawn away. It was no surprise, really. For Castiel to give Dean that tie pin had to be draining for his emotions, as well as his bank account. Dean had gratefully accepted, but had given nothing back in order to rejuvenate Castiel’s depleted supply of generosity. Castiel gave three hundred dollars’ worth of a gift, for Christ’s sake. That was an outrageous amount of money. What Castiel wanted in return was Dean’s devoted companionship during the trip of a lifetime. Times like this, a plain old ‘thanks but no thanks’ wasn’t really good enough.

 

Over the past five years, Dean had gradually come to recognise that his friend was the most capable and adaptable creature in some situations – hell, he could march an army into a battle with his head screwed on right and emerge victorious – but when it came to everyday scenarios like working his wireless radio, choosing the best food for his fish, or navigating a nuanced social interaction, Castiel simply wasn’t any good by himself. He really did need a companion if he was to face the world.

 

At least when Dean had told Castiel he wasn’t _ready_ to leave New York, he left the idea free for revisitation later. This time his decision had been final. That must’ve hit Castiel hard. The guy just needed some time to recover, that was all, Dean told himself. Cas wasn’t like other people – emotions like disappointment or sorrow would take a lot out of him, enough that doing normal things became impossible.

 

Dean watched Castiel walk about his apartment wrapped in a blanket, sipping on a glass of water. Castiel paid no attention to the sight beyond his window; he didn’t even look up. But the minutes wore on, and Castiel still did not turn towards the window. Instead he sat in an armchair, picked up a newspaper, licked a thumb, and turned to a middle page to read.

 

So! Castiel had snuck back home, silent so Dean didn’t hear. And now he wasn’t even giving Dean the time of day. It didn’t matter that it was after dark – Castiel knew perfectly well that Dean would still be up. What Dean inferred from this odd behaviour was that he, Dean, was no longer Castiel’s priority. His skin ran with chills as he concluded that his previous fear had been realised: Castiel was most certainly the kind of bird who wanted to fly away. He no longer cared about fraternising with a nesting bird like Dean, and as soon as he had the money, he was going to leave him behind.

 

Though tears sprung to Dean’s eyes, he told himself he had to stand by his decision to stay in New York. He’d flip-flopped too many times already, and his conclusion was born from many years’ worth of protective insight. He wasn’t going to change his mind again just because Castiel wasn’t taking it too well.

 

If Castiel decided to leave without Dean... Well, Dean would just have to accept that. In such a case, he would have to give back the tie pin, or Castiel would surely have no money. Losing Castiel and his most valuable possession at once would undoubtedly break Dean’s heart, but given Castiel’s current state of withdrawal, there was no escaping the possibility that losing both might be inevitable.

 

Cas was slipping away from Dean, and Dean could only watch as it happened.

 

Castiel finished his drink and set the glass down beside his fish tank. He watched his fish swimming around, and the sight seemed to calm him. Dean watched him watching the fish for perhaps five minutes. But while Castiel grew calmer, Dean became more agitated, observing a beautiful animal through glass, unable to communicate with it.

 

Eventually Dean snapped, and he realised it was up to him to convince Castiel he was still worth knowing, even if he couldn’t offer himself as a travel companion. He pulled a penny from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it in his hand, testing its weight. With his tongue set between his lips, Dean aimed at Castiel’s window and gently tossed the coin to tap the glass.

 

Castiel looked up, his tired eyes full of alarm. He immediately saw it was Dean, rather than a sparrow who flew into the window, and his shoulders slumped. Castiel was not cruel; he didn’t ignore Dean now he’d made his presence known. Castiel went to the window and thrust it open. The gust of air pushed his blanket off his shoulders, and Dean saw he was only wearing a greying undershirt and shorts.

 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said. His voice was slow and thick. “I wasn’t going to bother you tonight...”

 

“Yeah, I figured,” Dean answered gently. He gave a smile. “Bet you could do with a drink, though. Got a bottle of wine we can share. You want some?”

 

Castiel let his head sag forward, showing Dean the back of his neck. His body swelled as he inhaled, and finally he looked up again. “We’re not allowed alcohol. I didn’t know you cared so little about obeying the law.”

 

“Heh,” Dean said, grinning a bit. “If that’s what you think, then there might be a lot about me you don’t know.”

 

“Even after so long, you think you have secrets?”

 

“I know I have secrets,” Dean impressed. “Come sit with me and I’ll tell you.”

 

“Ah...” Castiel shut his eyes for a long moment. He swallowed, then nodded. “All right. Give me a few minutes. I haven’t washed.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said with a chuckle. “Trust me, I know what a sweaty man smells like.”

 

“No... I’d really prefer to wash,” Castiel muttered. “Pour the wine. I’ll join you.”

 

Dean let him go. He wondered if Castiel was as self-conscious about his presentation as Dean was whenever Cas showed his face. Dean never specifically wanted Castiel to see him at his _best_ – as in, most decorated – but he did want Castiel to see him at his most comfortable. In some ways, that was his best. Perhaps Castiel felt uncomfortable, not unattractive. Dean smiled at the thought. If Castiel was going to spend all his energy on Dean, he wanted to be relaxed enough to enjoy it. Dean took that as a compliment.

 

Dean poured a glass of wine for each of them, and he buttered most of a loaf of bread, setting aside a few slices for Sam when he got home. Sliced-up cheese and a few slivers of sundried tomato joined the bread, and Dean carried the tray carefully to the window. He set it down on the fire escape, beside the wine bottle.

 

Castiel came to his window dressed in a fresh knee-length union suit, this set white. The fabric looked soft and well-worn, probably serving as his comfiest bedclothes. The pilled cloth stretched as Castiel stepped from his window to the ladder on the fire escape, then clambered over the railing to join Dean. Dean caught the briefest flash of Castiel’s lower back, where the union suit’s drop-seat pulled at the button closure. Dean had never found plain undergarments sexy until that moment.

 

“Wine,” Dean offered, holding up a full glass. The liquid showed up purple in the moonlight, and bronze in the yellow light from Castiel’s apartment.

 

Castiel took the glass and sniffed it eagerly, purring at the back of his throat. “This aroma. It reminds me...” He smiled. “Reminds me of Christmas. I must’ve been, oh, fifteen. A friend stole a bottle of wine from his grandfather’s cellar, and we sat on a snow-covered step and drank the whole thing. I’d never been tipsy before.”

 

“I was twelve the first time I got myself pickled,” Dean grinned. “One of my dad’s friends handed me ale.”

 

“I don’t much enjoy the sensation of drunkenness,” Castiel confessed. “But,” he sipped the wine, and his shoulders sank in satisfaction, “I do like the taste.”

 

“Bitter,” Dean murmured, sipping his own. “God, that’s good.”

 

Castiel sat down in Dean’s window, one knee crooked towards Dean. Dean straddled the sill, one leg bent up so he could rest his wine-holding arm atop his knee. His other foot stretched towards Castiel, and he nudged him in the thigh.

 

“So,” Dean said. “How’re you doin’, Cas? You okay?”

 

Castiel looked up past his wine glass, a sparkle finally coming to his dulled eyes. He lowered his glass and swallowed, and he nodded. He seemed to mean it.

 

Dean reached down and showed Castiel the platter of food. “Not sure if this makes up for ripping all your dreams out from under your feet. But, hey... I wanna try and make it up to you. Eat something. Knowing you, you haven’t eaten a scrap all weekend.”

 

Castiel opened his mouth, but he didn’t speak. His eyes showed his guilt.

 

“It’s okay,” Dean said, putting the tray steadily on top of Castiel’s leg. “Take as much as you want.”

 

Castiel took a piece of buttered bread and stacked it with cheese and tomato, then topped it with another piece of bread. He bit into it so deeply that bread squashed into his cheeks, and tomato mush left a mark on his skin.

 

Dean chuckled. “There’s the hungry hippo I know and love.”

 

Castiel wiped his cheek and glanced Dean’s way, mouth full. “W’ash dat s’poshed to mean?”

 

Dean bit his lip and grinned, tilting his head in a shrugging way. “I love how you eat, that’s all. Sam used to eat the same way when he hadn’t eaten in days. Guess it’s relieving for me to watch.”

 

Castiel squinted suspiciously, but he got distracted by his grumbling stomach, crying out for another mouthful.

 

He ate three sandwiches, but stopped when he heard Dean’s stomach grumble too. He made Dean eat something as well, and they dined together: Castiel enjoyed his fourth sandwich while Dean enjoyed his first.

 

“You promised me secrets,” Castiel reminded Dean once he’d finished eating. They sipped on their wine, backs leaning on opposite sides of the window, their calves and knees pressed together. “After hours of talking to me every night, for _years_ , what secrets could you possibly still keep?”

 

Dean gulped a mouthful of wine a bit too quickly, and coughed. “I— Um.” His lips twitched. “I’ve actually wanted to tell you something for a while now.” His thumb tickled anxiously at the side seam of his pants. “Sometimes we talk about some adjacent topic, and I wonder if you’d be able to handle it...”

 

“Oh?” Castiel said. Judging by the darkness under his eyes and the tension in his cheeks, he was clearly fatigued, but he made the effort to pay attention. Dean suddenly felt very aware of his gaze.

 

“It’s about... About what I used to do for my job,” Dean murmured. “And something else. Something around that, uh, whole idea.”

 

“Oh,” Castiel said again. He tried to look interested, but he failed.

 

“It’s not boring, I swear,” Dean smiled.

 

“It’s not that. I was just expecting a secret I didn’t already know.”

 

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “You think you know? Believe me, you don’t know, Cas. I’d know if you knew.”

 

“You sold yourself for sex.”

 

Dean stared at Castiel. The world had frozen around them, and Dean was stuck there, carved out of ice. Castiel sipped on his wine and waited for Dean to thaw.

 

“Y— You. Um.” Dean panted.

 

“I made a terrible mistake, a long time ago,” Castiel said with a sigh, staring into his wine. “I wanted to tell you what I’d done, but couldn’t begin knowing how to broach the subject. I still feel so guilty, Dean. I didn’t even realise I was doing something wrong until it was too late. I found out. And the longer I left it, the harder it became to say anything...”

 

“Cas – what? St-Start at the beginning, okay? When was this?!”

 

“It... It was the same week I moved in here, after we shook hands in the street. I happened to see you at the market, and I came up to say hello, but you left with a man and went into a public building. I – I thought I could catch up – I thought the man was a friend of yours. But when I did catch up... Well...”

 

Dean had to put his glass down before he snapped the stem with his grip. “Y-You _followed_ me—” His voice had gone all breathy and tight. “Cas, what the _hell_?!”

 

“I can assure you, I never meant to pry into your private business,” Castiel said softly. “You closed the door, and I stood outside, I wasn’t sure if I should knock... But then I heard what was happening and I left straight away—”

 

“Okay! Fine! But— Cas, you can’t just follow people. You can’t go around—” Dean covered his face with both his hands, huffing out all at once. This wasn’t the first time Castiel had been too blunt about something he wasn’t supposed to do, not realising it was improper. But, like last time, Dean did his best to advance gently. He swallowed, and looked Castiel in the eye. “Listen. Generally it’s not – _polite_ to follow people if they don’t know you’re there. Or at all.”

 

“I know that _now_! And I didn’t hide,” Castiel said, affronted. “I was only seconds behind you. You are just exceptionally unobservant. You didn’t even look around to check if you’d been followed.”

 

“Well... No doubt I had other things on my mind.” Dean shook his head, pressing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “God... I can’t even believe this. You knew all along.” After all the efforts he’d gone to in order to hide the truth, it had all been for nothing. He could’ve wept for how frustrating that felt.

 

“You weren’t happy doing that job,” Castiel said, running a finger around the rim of his glass. “At first I thought you had a lot of fun – you sounded like you did from your stories, talking about your lovers when you came home. I knew they were your work clients, though you never specified. Sex... Ahck, I don’t know. It seems to be something a great many people desire, and you had a lot of it. Logic might dictate that would make you happy. But...” Castiel examined Dean’s expression, looking into his eyes, and Dean supposed he would see a haunted past swimming there like drowned ghosts. “But you weren’t happy. Far from it. You were living hell.”

 

“Yeah. How could you tell?” Dean asked with some bitterness, picking up his wine glass again.

 

“I said hello to you,” Castiel smiled. “Don’t you remember? I opened my window every evening and greeted you, and we talked for hours. Don’t say you’ve forgotten.”

 

“No, I remember. I opened my window to ask you to quit with the damn trumpet. But I never said—”

 

“We talked for _hours_ , Dean. You saw and met and talked with people all day, and you came home exhausted. But you wanted to talk to me. You didn’t want to go to sleep because you didn’t want to stop talking to _me_. You were lonely, Dean. You were the loneliest man I’d ever met. Nobody ever talks to me for that long.”

 

Dean snorted, staring into his wine. “Give yourself a little credit, Cas. You’re interesting. For God’s sake, man, you follow _pigeons_ around for fun. You’re a fucking freak, look at you! Someone’s gotta be mad not to find you fascinating.”

 

Castiel gazed at Dean, processing his words. He started to smile. “Thank you,” he said.

 

“Damn right,” Dean said. He tipped back the last of his wine, then bent down to pour himself some more. He filled up Castiel’s glass while he was at it. “But seriously,” Dean added. “I wish you hadn’t done that. I don’t even wanna think about what you heard me doing.”

 

“I didn’t stay to listen, Dean,” Castiel said. “Fifteen seconds, perhaps. And I’m _sorry_. I am. I still feel like I violated your trust.”

 

Dean swallowed. “It’s fine, Cas.” He paused. “Well – no, it’s not _fine_. But I’m more mad that you never said anything to me. Do you even know how _hard_ I worked to keep this shit a secret? How many lies I’ve had to tell you? How much lying to you _hurt_? Because it did hurt, Cas. You could’ve saved me five years, constantly worrying that you’d hate me if you ever discovered the truth.”

 

Castiel said nothing, only bowed his head in remorse.

 

Dean stared at his friend for a while, working his jaw around nothing. Eventually, he released his tongue from the roof of his mouth and relaxed. It wasn’t Castiel’s fault. It had to have been just as hard for Castiel to keep Dean’s secret as it was for Dean. Besides, it spoke volumes that Castiel didn’t fault Dean for hiding the truth, and despite everything, he’d remained steadfast over the years. Dean shut his eyes and shook his head. “Just promise me you never breathed a word to anyone else.”

 

“Never, Dean,” Castiel replied. He glanced up, but shame made him wary of Dean’s gaze. “I think about it often, though. You were so up-front about what you intended to do. I’d never heard anyone talk so openly about sexual intercourse. Once I realised that man was paying you sex for I was... horrified.”

 

“Because of what I was doing? Or who I was doing it with?”

 

Castiel shook his head. “It didn’t matter who it was, Dean. You didn’t want to be doing what you were doing, but you did it anyway, for money. You made your clients believe you enjoyed it when you didn’t. Judging by how you spoke to me about your lovers, too, you tried to convince _yourself_ you enjoyed it when you didn’t. I can’t think of a single experience more traumatising than that.”

 

Dean shrugged a shoulder. “There was a time I enjoyed it. And... And to me, it made a difference who it was. I like women a lot.”

 

“You do? I always thought you were posturing.”

 

Dean nodded, feeling heat in his cheeks. “And men.”

 

“Oh,” Castiel said. He stroked his wine glass, staring vaguely up at the stars.

 

“Do you think that’s strange?” Dean asked.

 

“Yes,” Castiel said, nodding. “But only because I don’t.”

 

“You mean you’re not interested in men?”

 

“Anyone, really,” Castiel shrugged. His eyes darted to Dean’s, then away again. “Well, nearly anyone.”

 

Dean felt a rush of sensation burst from his heart and his groin, meeting in the middle and then going everywhere else, making his skin glow with heat. Did Cas really, truly mean that? Those three words and a shy glance had gone and changed everything.

 

“Oh dear,” Castiel breathed. He spun in place to face the outside, head bent down. A bashful smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “Perhaps I revealed too much. Must be the wine.”

 

“The wine’s barely had a chance to get into your system, Cas. That one was all you.” Dean budged up along the sill, nestling close to Castiel’s shoulder. Over the past few days, Dean had slowly convinced himself his only purpose in Castiel’s life was to eventually act as a travel guide, but now...? Now all of those thoughts vapourised, and Castiel once again became Dean’s best friend, and Dean felt loved. Loved, only for the sake of what he could willingly offer, not some other potential.

 

“So you like me, huh?” Dean pried.

 

“Are you surprised?”

 

Dean shook his head, eyes down.

 

After a pause, Castiel asked, “Do you like me too?”

 

“I love you,” Dean said. He glanced up at Castiel and presented a lopsided grin. “What? You didn’t expect me to say it?”

 

“Never in a million years,” Castiel stated.

 

“I figured I owed you a secret,” Dean smirked. “One you actually didn’t know.”

 

“Anything else you’ve neglected to mention thus far?”

 

Dean held Castiel’s gaze for a bit, calculating. His head was rushing, his skin was roaring hot, and his reply was about to trip off the end of his tongue. “I know it was you.”

 

“What was me?”

 

“The money. The cash you slid under the door. Five years ago.”

 

Castiel’s eyebrows rose.

 

Dean pressed his side against Castiel’s. “I don’t know where you keep getting all your dough, Cas, but I can promise you... it’s appreciated. So much. I never even considered it was you who saved me from that – that job – but now...” He touched the tie pin, illustrating everything it represented. “I know it was you. Nobody else I know has that kind of money.” Dean smiled. “Guess it was a good thing you stalked me, after all. If it wasn’t for what you did, Cas, I’d still be out there, hustling, day and night.”

 

“I know,” Castiel said softly. He took Dean’s hand, and Dean flushed lava-hot, bumps rising on his skin, all the fine hairs on end. “Once I found out the reality of your situation, I swore I would do whatever it took to help you.”

 

“I can’t pay you back,” Dean said, leaning closer. “Cas, I’ve got _nothing_ I can give you.”

 

Castiel nodded. He knew. “I’ll admit, I was still hoping you’d allow me to impress you one more time; let me show you the world. But you’ve made your decision. You want to stay. I won’t try and change your mind now.”

 

Overwhelmed by panic and want – _stay here, don’t go without me; stay with me, please_ – Dean reached to touch Castiel, cupping his cheek in his hand. Scratchy dark stubble tickled his palm, and the intimacy of it thrilled Dean for the second time in a week.

 

Dean’s eyes roamed Castiel’s face, inches away, almost close enough to feel his breath. Castiel peered back, fingers lifting to join Dean’s greedy hand at his cheek. He was too hot, and his palm was sweating just as much as Dean’s. Dean was enthralled by the power of his grip.

 

Castiel’s lips had been licked wet. He and Dean wanted the same thing, it was clear now. This was happening _right now_ ; the hitching breaths they shared proved it so. Dean wasn’t going to back down in fear. He had to prove to Castiel he was worth every strange and flustered feeling, he was worth Castiel’s attention and his love, despite Dean not being sure of it himself.

 

“Cas...” Intrepid as a summer storm, Dean met Castiel’s gaze fully, and the urge to kiss him _bolted_ through his body. It stung, the way the sky flashed bright while a comet fell. He tried to let it settle, pushing it away like he usually did— What if he _wasn’t_ worth it? What if Castiel was better off alone? But this time his desire wouldn’t go, and that blazing-white comet carried on lighting up his sky. There was no fighting it tonight.

 

Castiel was the first to move; he was done waiting. With a sigh of longing, he took Dean’s head in his hands and sank against Dean’s lips, and they pressed together like they’d fit that way forever. It was hot and strong and _furious_ , and Dean grunted into Castiel’s mouth, frowning like it was a fight. He grabbed Castiel in return and pushed deeply, leaning so far into Castiel’s space that his hand became the cushion between Castiel’s head and the window frame.

 

Dean gasped into Castiel’s mouth as the pleasure hit him. That comet had ripped through his atmosphere and had found a place to land, and oh, how its fury spread. Like fire in a forest, a tidal wave towards a beach. Castiel’s kiss was dynamite and destruction at first... At first.

 

Soon it softened. Castiel turned his head, and his lips only pressed. Just gently. A forest fire became a night garden, splendid white lilies shining in the moonlight; the tsunami was nothing but a hush over the beach. Hush. Hush. The downed comet in Dean’s mind glowed faintly, pulses fading to reveal a perfect diamond, a sparkle from a shattered star.

 

Once he knew how to do it, Castiel’s kiss was sort of like falling, sort of like coming home.

 

Dean sucked his own lip, feeling heat clouding around his head. Castiel’s breath shuddered from his mouth, tingling where saliva was left on Dean’s lips. Heartbeats... Dean had never heard his heart beating so loudly. It could’ve been cannonfire for how bold it was being.

 

Dean inched forward again, craving another kiss. He felt a tap on his bare foot, and he gasped as he realised he’d kicked the wine bottle. He turned his head just in time to see it rolling off the fire escape, tumbling down into the dark. A second later, it smashed in the alleyway, unseen. Far away, a dog started barking.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” Dean said.

 

Castiel hummed a note. “Clumsy.”

 

“Distracted,” Dean corrected. He sat facing forward, stunned for a moment. His heart still thundered, his lips still tingled, and his fingers still felt the slip-through of Castiel’s thick hair, though now his hands curled, empty. It wasn’t long before Dean’s surroundings jumped back into his awareness, at which point he sank his head into a hand and groaned. What was he going to tell Billie about that wine? She would’ve wanted the bottle back.

 

Castiel’s hand gripped Dean’s again, sliding so they were palm-to-palm. Dean smiled, locking his fingers down so Castiel couldn’t escape.

 

For a quiet moment, Dean considered the attention Castiel was paying him. Dark eyes, small smile. A particular interest in his lips...

 

“You know, Cas,” Dean said, “there is... one thing I can think of.”

 

“One thing for what?”

 

Dean glanced down to Castiel’s lap, then shrugged. “A way I can pay you back. For the tie pin. So I can keep it, but you don’t feel put out. Billie gave me the wine, said I oughta give you a night you’ll always remember. Wine’s gone. But – there’s other ways...”

 

Dean pushed his shoulder to Castiel’s, tilting his head enticingly.

 

“What are you saying?” Castiel asked, narrowing his eyes.

 

“Can’t you guess?” Dean murmured, kissing their joined hands. He smirked, leaning in to whisper against Castiel’s cheek. “Make love to me?” he breathed, open lips dragging on Castiel’s skin. “Take me to bed and... _oh_ , just... just touch me. However you like. You’ve given me so much, Cas, I don’t wanna leave you wantin’ something.”

 

Castiel took his hand away from Dean’s. He had to struggle to free it; Dean didn’t want to let go.

 

“Cas, what—?”

 

“I’m going to bed,” Castiel said firmly. “My _own_ bed.” He stared at Dean with pointed sternness. “Goodnight, Dean. Thank you for the food. And the wine. And the... the company. This was a pleasant night for me.”

 

“Shit, Cas, I didn’t mean— Come back!”

 

“Good _night_ , Dean,” Castiel repeated, pushing Dean’s reaching hands to his own side of the fire escape. Castiel quickly stepped back to his own window, climbing down to the floor.

 

Dean clung to himself, at a loss for what to do. “Cas, I... I thought you wanted...”

 

Castiel paused, both hands ready to pull down his window pane. He stared at Dean, studying him for a number of seconds.

 

Eventually, Castiel took a breath to speak. “I think perhaps... you misunderstood.”

 

“But you said you like me. The hell did I do wrong?”

 

“Dean, I more than like you, I love you,” Castiel said, gently and softly, begging Dean to understand. “I _love_ you. I don’t want to— Why should I need to touch you before you believe me? I give you things to help you, because I want you to be happy, and safe. That’s all. I’m not ‘put out’ that you want to keep the tie pin. I don’t give you things because I want something in return.”

 

“But _I_ want—” Dean choked on his words, and had to start again. “Cas, I want _you_.”

 

“I understand why you think that, Dean,” Castiel assured him. “I do. But you must separate _your_ desire from what you think _I_ want. Don’t go thinking you can repay me with sex. Don’t ever think that. Your body isn’t a commodity any more. If you truly feel you owe me something, there are other things you can give me.”

 

“Like what?”

 

Castiel let out a slow breath, and his shoulders sank. “I’ll let you decide.”

 

With that, he pulled the window down. And, for the first time since last winter, he pulled the drapes shut. Dean was left staring at a rectangle of back-lit orange, tasting the wine on his breath.

 

“ _I’ll let you decide_ ,” Dean whispered. He frowned, looking back unseeingly towards his open window. “Cas— _What_? What does that even mean?”

 

«··· ✧✦✧ ···»

 

“No pictures! No pictures, please!” Inspector Novak’s resistant palm greeted the sea of reporters who had congregated after dark, a mass of bodies, two dozen strong, all pushing and shoving at the steps outside a sculpture gallery. A summer storm brewed in the night sky beyond the courtyard, and its abysmal rumbling drowned out the chatter of urgent questions. Humidity stifled breaths and made clothing cling to skin; the situation felt like strangulation to Novak. He forged a path through the crowd, forcing his exhales, head down.

 

“Make way! Make way,” Lieutenant Fitzgerald called from behind, overtaking his partner and parting the throng of people. Novak emerged clear-headed, puffing out a breath of relief.

 

“Inspector!” yelled a voice from the crowd. “Is it true? Has the Paper Jaybird outwitted you again?”

 

“Is that what you heard?” Novak asked, raising a curt eyebrow as he climbed to the top of the steps, standing a head over everyone else. Rather smugly, he faced the assembly and said, “No, it’s not true. Was the Jaybird here tonight? Evidently, yes. A jewel was indeed stolen from the gallery behind me. Did he – or she – get away unscathed? I’m sorry to say the answer is again yes. But, the Jaybird has not outwitted me, or any of my team. Not in the slightest. Not tonight.”

 

A roar of fresh follow-up questions flooded the courtyard. Wanting, wanting; each single voice clawed with immense curiosity, every shout combining into an over-eager monster that wanted far too many things.

 

All the fuss proved too much to bear. Sensing Novak’s impending emotional shutdown, Fitzgerald stepped in with a handful of other cops, herding the shouting mouths and all the intrusive noises backwards.

 

Two by two, or three by three, reporters were allowed through to a quieter area beneath a streetlamp, and Inspector Novak gave his interviews. He read from no script, but the story he told remained much the same.

 

An hour had passed before he was done. Only then did the skies break, pouring forth a mere haze of moisture, blurring the golden lamplight and glossing the courtyard with black mirrors.

 

“Come on, sir,” Fitzgerald said, beckoning, holding out an umbrella for the Inspector to stand under. “I think that’s enough interviews for one night. You look like you’re ready to drop.”

 

“Are they all gone?” Novak asked, turning his head about, eyes skipping through the drizzle. There were still police cars stalled at awkward angles with their engines running, headlight beams driving yellow through spitting raindrops. Detectives floated about, calling to others about their unsurprising lack of findings.

 

“There’s a few reporters left,” Fitzgerald said, but he turned his head away. “You don’t need to see them. Let’s go.”

 

“But they’ve been standing out all night—”

 

“Look, there’s our car. Let’s get you home, shall we?”

 

“I can walk. Garth, stop pushing me. What’s the problem?”

 

“No problem,” Fitzgerald breathed, shrugging. Inspector Novak narrowed his eyes, taking the umbrella away from Fitzgerald. Novak said nothing about it, but oh, could he recognise a lie when he saw one.

 

“You take the car,” Novak said. “I need a walk to clear my head in any case.” His tone left little room for argument. Fitzgerald gave in without a fight, climbing into the police car by himself.

 

Novak watched the car pull out into the street. A slosh of rainwater followed in its wake.

 

He was alone now, or close to it. He turned back to the sculpture gallery – just in time to see what his Lieutenant didn’t want him to see.

 

Other cops were forcing away a gaggle of leftover reporters. Although they dressed the same, carried the same notepads, and were shouting the same questions across the courtyard to Novak, they were not allowed to speak to him, because these reporters were different to the others. Their difference was marked only by the colour of their skin, and the way they were being excluded.

 

For a second, Novak thought he saw a face he recognised. A woman with bushy black hair, heavy kinks weighed down by the rain. She had a strong face and determined eyes. Surely... Surely he’d seen her someplace before, years ago. Not at a crime scene. Somewhere casual, like a birthday party. He’d seen her smile, once. He recalled she had a beautiful smile.

 

With tension in his jaw, Novak left. He stalked off with a swish of his wet coat, hiding beneath his umbrella, not wanting to cause further trouble. His career as a detective had long been in jeopardy: despite a five-year chase, he still hadn’t caught the Paper Jaybird. But, after tonight’s semi-success, he sincerely hoped he might stand on easier footing in the public eye. Fitzgerald had implied he shouldn’t to talk to the remaining reporters, so Novak decided to take the cue and go home before he made a fool of himself. Further mysteries might unfold, and the faces of half-remembered black women might haunt his dreams, but Novak wanted no part in it tonight.

 

«··· ✧✦✧ ···»


	5. Bathtub Bijoux

Dean sank down in the sudsy water, sighing slowly. Through half-closed eyes he watched candle flames flicker at points around the bathroom: on the bathtub’s corner rim, on the sink ledge, and on the windowsill. The wall tiles gleamed with sleek golden edges, contrasting most strikingly with the moonlight streaming through the open window, which turned everything an enchanting shade of blue-silver.

 

Breathing in the scent of bath salts, Dean allowed a blissful aura to take him over. The warmth and tang of the summer air just after a rainstorm, the coolness of the water, the gentle wash of bubbles against Dean’s chest – all of it was intoxicating.

 

He tried to let everything go, clear his mind.

 

It didn’t take long.

 

He was a fine trading ship making port in a pearlescent harbour. He was a blooming lily floating on a mirrored pond. He was a single raindrop within a drifting cloud. There was nothing much to think about any more.

 

Time passed. Dean stopped seeing the light of the candles through the membrane of his eyelids; his life became lost to an easy lilac haze, serenaded by the gentle hiss of tiny bubbles slowly popping. He sank down in the bath, and water caressed the knot at the base of his skull. Worries faded.

 

Dean breathed in deeply.

 

He held a storm in his lungs.

 

He let it go free, and it grazed over a misty forest, churning patterns into the tops of the shaking trees. Breath ran out; the forest went silent and still, and Dean smiled on the inside.

 

A whisper broke the silence; birds stripped from the treetops and shrieked in pre-dawn echoes, flocks and flocks breaking apart the mist and flying up into the light. Dean frowned.

 

... _Dean..._

 

Dean’s eyelids fluttered but didn’t separate.

 

“Dean... Dean, wake up...”

 

The mist vanished; the lilac haze folded away to reveal bathroom tiles and fluttering candle flames. Dean inhaled, sitting up in a rush. Water sloshed around his waist, ceramic hard under his bare buttocks. “Uh?”

 

“Dean,” Castiel said. His voice was soft. “I’m sorry, I... I couldn’t sleep. I saw your lights were still on – it’s almost three o’clock in the morning.”

 

“Uh. Crap. God-dammit.” Dean scowled, blinking thickness from his eyes, wiping a wrinkled hand down his face. “I’ve only been here, ah... half an hour. Two-thirty. Couldn’t sleep either.”

 

“The bath helped, then.”

 

Dean managed a tiny grin. “I’ll say.” He glanced outside of the bath, spying Castiel’s figure standing in the doorway. He was still in the bedclothes he’d worn when he shared wine with Dean a few hours earlier. He had something clutched inside his fist, something that made his knuckles bulge.

 

“What are you doin’ in here?” Dean asked, thoughts finally catching up with him. “How’d you even get in?”

 

“You left your window unlocked,” Castiel said.

 

“That window’s loud,” Dean remarked. “How did you get in without making a noise?”

 

Castiel lifted a shoulder. “You must’ve been too deeply asleep to hear,” he said, eyes down.

 

“Right,” Dean nodded. It was the simplest explanation. “But really, Cas. Not that I’m complaining, or anything, but what _are_ you doing here?”

 

“I was thinking,” Castiel said. “If you won’t sell the tie pin, perhaps you’d more readily sell something that doesn’t have an obvious use besides re-sale. So I... I came to give you this.”

 

He came forward, kneeling on the woven cloth mat beside the bath. He offered out his hand, palm-up. Dean saw he held a perfect-cut blue gem, glittering and magnificent, approximately the size of a large toy marble.

 

Dean’s heart skipped a beat. His mind blanked, his fingers went numb, his lungs became unable to draw breath. And then every sense returned, his vision brighter than before, his heartbeat pounding inside his ribs.

 

And all he could do was gaze at Castiel like he’d gone mad. Then he shifted a hand to cover his eyes, and he lay back in his bathtub, groaning into his hands. Despair grabbed at his heart, and he let it squeeze him breathless.

 

“Dean...? I-I thought you’d be pleased.”

 

“Cas, you have to _stop_ ,” Dean moaned, the damp heels of his hands pressed to his eyes. “I can’t keep accepting— Where are you even _getting_ — _How_ are you so—? Gah!” He splayed his hands over his head in near-hysteria. He grinned at the ceiling, shaking his head.

 

Dean eventually gained enough composure to turn his head and look his friend in the eye. Castiel just looked confused, perhaps a little distressed.

 

“Cas,” Dean said calmly, turning at the waist. He pushed his chest to the side of the bath, reaching out a dripping hand to curl around Castiel’s gem and the fingers that caged it. He closed Castiel’s fist, hiding the gem from view.

 

“Okay,” Dean began, hearing a tremble in his voice. “I need to explain something to you. It’s important, so listen carefully, all right?”

 

When Castiel nodded, Dean licked his lips and went on: “I know how badly you want to travel. Believe me, I close my eyes and I’m right there with you. But you and I, we’re not the same. We’re not the _same_. You don’t have the ties I have. You’re not rooted in your responsibilities to other people, and you clearly – you _clearly_ don’t have to struggle for money like I do, like everyone in this godforsaken world has to. You’re different.

 

“And I— I can’t accept what you’re offering me, Cas. I’m not your prince, I’m not your soulmate, I’m not the rain to your barren fields, or whatever it is you think I am. Until I saw that gem, I thought, maybe. Maybe I could be. But I’m not. I’m a cocksucking whore from the bad side of town. I’m... I’m nothing. I’m nothing compared to you. What you’re seeing in me, it just isn’t there. So you take your gems, Cas. You take your pretty trinkets and you go back to your nest, jaybird, because I can’t come with you.” He swallowed hard, unable to dislodge the pain in his throat. “When you fly away, you leave me behind. My place is here.”

 

Dean let go of Castiel’s hand and the gem inside, and he lay back in his bath. His fingers were wrinkled and he just wanted Castiel to leave so he could cry alone, curled up in bed, wrapped in a towel. But he didn’t make it that long. Only a second passed before a tear fell, cooling his too-hot cheek. He bowed his head, squeezing his eyes tight shut.

 

“What’s the matter?” Castiel asked, a tender presence beside Dean’s shoulder. A hand touched Dean’s back, dry and calming. “You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”

 

Dean breathed out, his exhale jagged on his bitten lip.

 

“Dean,” Castiel whispered. Dean felt a kiss on his bicep, bristly and sweet. “There’s nothing you can say to make me stop loving you, my friend. Push me all you like, I won’t hurt you.”

 

“But what about that?” Dean cried, gesturing at the gem. “What about that, Cas? That hurts me.”

 

“How?” Castiel frowned.

 

Dean grinned dangerously, blinded by tears. “You don’t know what it’s like. To live in someone else’s pocket. To— To _be_ whatever they want you to be, because _they_ have the money to keep you breathing. Cas, I’ve spent too long being bought by men and women who want me. How are you any different? Because you love me? Oh, like I’ve never heard that before. I’m sick of it, Cas. I’m sick of it. You said it yourself: I’m not a commodity any more. I thought we were equals. But you give me money and I’ll always feel indebted to you. You can say it’s not like that, but to me, it’s always going to be like that. In this world, money is power, it’s control. And I’m done being someone’s slave. I’m _done_.”

 

Castiel listened to every word. He heard what Dean was saying and he shut his eyes, finally understanding. Looking down at the gem, he opened his fingers to look at it. His hand turned palm-down, and the gem toppled to the bathroom floor, tinkling against the tiles, silent when it bounced onto the mat.

 

Castiel looked back up and met Dean’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. I should’ve thought more about what financial support would mean to you.”

 

Dean breathed shakily. He stared at the rim of the bath, where Castiel’s now-empty hand curled around the ceramic. He couldn’t quite believe Castiel had relinquished his power so easily. Nobody had ever been that considerate.

 

Castiel rubbed Dean’s back gently. “Are you okay?”

 

Dean felt a final tear fall, and he nodded, gulping. Both hands wound around his thighs, keeping his legs pressed protectively to his chest. “I’m okay,” he muttered.

 

“May I speak?” Castiel asked, tipping his head to catch Dean’s gaze. “There’s something I think you might like to know.”

 

Dean nodded, curious.

 

Castiel began to smile, touching Dean’s pouting lip with a thumb. The touch made Dean smile, and Castiel smiled too; the smile quickly became his usual awkward grin.

 

“I can see you’re scared,” Castiel said, grin fading as he spoke. “You’ve lost a lot in your life, one thing after another. But I want to promise you, Dean, you won’t be losing me any time soon. If you stay in New York, I stay. If you decide to leave, I leave with you. I’ll pay your way, but it will be your choice if you want to accept spending money. It’s all up to you – all of it. You will never owe me anything. I will not cut you off if you behave badly. In fact, I’m more than expecting to fight with you. No time on the road will be completely free of stress. But,” Castiel sighed, one corner of his lips rising in a smirk, “if you and Sam could survive a lifetime of companionship on the road and remain close, I think we can too.”

 

Dean stared at Castiel, unable to fully comprehend what he was hearing.

 

“You want to stay with Sam, and your other friends at work,” Castiel nodded. “But I know why: you’re afraid, Dean. You’re so afraid.” Now he shook his head, fingers grazing Dean’s cheek. “If we leave, you lose everything you have. Sam stays behind and you lose a big part of yourself. But you’re _more_ than that, Dean. You’re more than what you’ve accomplished, raising your brother. You’re a person outside of Sam. Sam is already independent of you. Your friends are perfectly capable of surviving without you; they made it most of their lives before meeting you. Same as I do, they value your presence, and they love you, but they don’t need you to live. _You_ need you to live. You can leave the others behind to flourish alone, and you gain life experiences you couldn’t have otherwise, always worrying about other people.”

 

Castiel sighed in a concerned sort of way, and he stroked Dean’s hair back. He took a breath, ready to impart something else. “You know very well how it feels to be needed, Dean,” he said gently. “You’ve thrived on that feeling all your life. It’s the reason you do anything, isn’t it? You’ll do near-anything, give near-anything, so long as someone else needs you to. You _know_ what it feels like to be needed. But... I’m not sure you understand how it feels to be loved. Cherished, for nothing. In exchange for nothing. Adored, Dean, just for being. The people who truly love you will not stop loving you if you no longer find it within your power to provide for them.”

 

It was not a beautiful idea; in fact, it brought to light all the ugliness of Dean’s past, relationships with strangers and friends and family alike. But it was the truth. And God, did it hurt Dean to hear.

 

With the utmost care shaping his candle-lit face, Castiel wiped a slow-moving tear from Dean’s cheek. “Nobody ought to be controlled by fear, Dean,” Castiel told him. “Fear that you’ll lose what you have now shouldn’t be a reason to avoid moving forward. We could have a future together. We’ve imagined it a thousand times. So what if the world outside isn’t how we dreamed it would be? So what? I want you by my side regardless. We can make it up as we go. And it’ll be _real_. So much greater than a fantasy.”

 

Castiel cradled Dean’s cheek in his palm, one thumb still stroking back and forth over Dean’s cheekbone.

 

“With that said,” Castiel said lowly, “reconsider my offer. Take however long you need. If you tell me once more that you want to stay in New York, I promise you now, I will _never_ ask you again.”

 

Dean licked his lips, setting a hand over Castiel’s. He tried to smile, knowing it was hopeless. But Castiel grinned at the sight of Dean’s face all screwed up, and the sound of his deep chuckle was enough to make Dean grin for real.

 

Dean shut his eyes as Castiel rested his forehead against Dean’s. They shared a silent moment, holding each other’s heads, fingers spread between strands of hair.

 

“It’s your choice, Dean,” Castiel repeated, quietly. “You deserve to choose your own path.”

 

So that was what he’d meant earlier, speaking across the void between their windows. _I’ll let you decide._ He was trying to get Dean to take back agency over his own life.

 

Dean tilted his head enough so he could kiss Castiel’s cheek. He couldn’t form the words to thank him properly, but he was sure Castiel could extrapolate.

 

Dean felt the flutter of eyelashes on his ear. “Oh,” Castiel breathed, fingers gripping Dean’s bare shoulder. A soft laugh followed.

 

“What?” Dean grunted out.

 

“Nothing. Ah... Apologies. I opened my eyes,” Castiel said bashfully. “I nearly looked...”

 

Dean glanced down in the bath, seeing how the bubbles had all but disappeared from the surface of the bathwater. His private parts were very close to being on display. He bit his lip, pulling back to meet Castiel’s gaze. “You wanna take a proper look?”

 

Castiel’s mouth opened and closed, a blush making his eyes shine. “Oh... Um.”

 

Dean sank back in the bath, legs apart, head tilting towards Castiel. “I still want you, Cas.” He grinned shyly, aware his eyes were still pink from his tears. “Look at me all you like.”

 

Castiel rubbed the back of his neck. “I... I’m not sure...”

 

“What? What’s the big deal?”

 

“Well, for one thing, you’re not a plaything made to denude and ogle. You shouldn’t be lying exposed while I’m still dressed.”

 

Dean closed his legs, a hand pushing his hair back over his head. “‘Kay,” he said, flushing hot in response to what had felt like a compliment. “What about both of us together, then?” When Castiel looked at him, lips parted, Dean tipped his head towards the bath. “Join me?”

 

“In the bath?” A wrinkle appeared between Castiel’s thick eyebrows. “I already washed.”

 

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “It ain’t about getting clean, Cas. It’s about being... intimate. Naked and close. C’mon.” He beckoned carelessly, but his heart leapt at the mere idea of seeing Castiel unclothed.

 

Castiel blinked, apparently running through the possibilities and consequences of what Dean was implying. Dean didn’t know what conclusion he came to, but for him it proved favourable: Castiel stood up, hands moving to undo the buttons of his union suit.

 

Dean watched with heat simmering under his skin, eyes following Castiel’s hands as they moved down his chest, exposing more and more of his body. His nipples were soft from the heat, but quickly hardened once he wriggled out of his one-piece.

 

Castiel stepped over the rim of the bath facing Dean, clambering into the tub. The sight set Dean’s heart racing. Castiel had sloping wide shoulders with prominent collarbones – and a hairless chest, flat stomach, and an impressive ‘V’ of muscle protruding over his hips. Massive, hairy thighs. Dean’s mouth fell open and he forgot to close it.

 

His eyes dipped low to see Castiel’s penis as he moved to kneel. It was a thick organ, perhaps fattened by the summer heat. Its pink tip stayed hidden behind a darker, crinkled hood, and a neat triangle of hair shaded the hilt. Though Castiel settled in the shallow water, the weight of his sex still bobbed between his thighs.

 

Dean observed all of this in a flash, afraid to be caught staring. But even without a second glance, he already knew that what he felt went beyond attraction. He was flustered, and blushing, and shy. Not to mention breathless. Dean hadn’t felt like this since – oh, before he could even _remember_.

 

Dean held onto his own knees, staring as Castiel got comfortable in front of him, gripping the bath, careful to avoid the candles.

 

Dean grinned at Castiel, bumping his chin against his own knee. “Water’s cooled. F-Feels good, right?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel said, right before he moved forward and kissed Dean on the lips.

 

“Heh,” Dean said, pleasantly surprised. Castiel pushed him back, craning over him to kiss him deeply, hands either side of Dean’s face.

 

“Mmmmh,” Castiel hummed, tilting his head, smooching in beats of three before turning his head the other way.

 

Dean shuddered, relaxing a few inches down the ceramic, legs apart again. Castiel pushed close, taking up the space Dean had cleared. Dean gasped aloud as Castiel’s belly pressed to his own. Water spilled against their skin, gritty with undissolved clumps of cheap bath salt.

 

For a moment, drowned in kisses, Dean gazed through hooded eyes at Castiel’s determined frown, the tiny happy wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, the flick of a smile every time the kiss broke and he surged in for more.

 

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean breathed, mouth open, arching his back.

 

“Ah—” Castiel halted, surprised by the physical contact. He stared wide-eyed at Dean, obviously stunned by how hard Dean’s penis had become.

 

One side of Dean’s grin rose higher than the other. “What?” he asked, playfully. “Is it a crime to enjoy being kissed now?”

 

“No,” Castiel said, but he still hesitated, not yet pushing against Dean’s erection. His eyes dipped down, back up, then down again, lingering. He looked thoughtfully between Dean’s parted legs, considering the stiff shape there with a peculiar tension in his expression.

 

“Nobody else,” Dean murmured, breath catching. “Nobody else touched me since... back then, when I was working that job. I want it to be you, Cas. Remind me... Remind me what a good touch feels like. I want it to be you.”

 

Castiel looked up, holding Dean’s gaze.

 

Dean squirmed, aching for contact. “Cas...” He tried to demonstrate his desire rather than speak: he took Castiel’s head in his hand and pulled him closer, but beyond a kiss, Castiel resisted quite strongly.

 

“What?” Dean asked, searching Castiel’s eyes for an explanation. “We made it this far. We’re kissing. I’m hard for you, Cas. I want you. Come on. Come on.” He tried to rub on him again, but Castiel made a quiet noise of complaint, both hands keeping Dean away.

 

Dean sat up, legs open around Castiel’s waist. They breathed against each other’s lips, but neither leaned in.

 

“Cas, what’s wrong?” Dean asked, worried he’d lost his spark. He’d always been a firecracker before. Had five years of abstinence extinguished what he had? “Don’t... Don’t you like it?”

 

Castiel shook his head.

 

Dean’s fingers clenched into the muscle on Castiel’s bare hip.

 

“Can I wash you instead?” Castiel asked, a sudden enthusiasm overriding his worry. “I want to wash you.”

 

Dean blinked. He smiled on a huff of breath, astounded at how often Castiel could surprise him. “Wash me,” he repeated.

 

Castiel nodded eagerly, eyes hungry on Dean’s lips. “And kiss you.”

 

Dean peered down at his erection, which still strained expectantly. “Uhm.”

 

“Please.” Castiel’s gaze had turned soft, his fingers stroking Dean’s hair back, watching his own hand comb through damp locks. He exhaled past parted lips, sinking in to kiss Dean gently on the tip of his nose. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re beautiful? Because you are. My God, Dean, if I was allowed, I’d never look away.”

 

People had expressed similar sentiments in the past, but never like that. Dean felt tingles under his skin, and he wondered if he might blush. He smiled, letting Castiel kiss his neck.

 

Dean shut his eyes slowly, fading back to that calm lilac haze he’d come to miss. Castiel’s kisses were rolling and mouthy, lighting up stars along Dean’s collarbone. Dean’s eyebrows rose as he began to feel pleasure, not quite sexual, but not wildly dissimilar.

 

“ _Auhhh_ ,” Dean sighed, feeling Castiel grip his lower back, lying him down against the slope of the bath. A sloshed handful of water tumbled from Castiel’s hand onto Dean’s chest, and Dean purred as Castiel stroked his skin, slipping over his hard nipples.

 

Kisses cascaded down Dean’s neck, to his shoulder, to his bicep. Dean hummed a single note, enjoying an open-mouthed kiss to the tender inner angle of his elbow. “Cas...”

 

“Shhhh,” Castiel hushed, taking Dean’s head in his hands, turning it to kiss the underside of his jaw. “Mmh...”

 

Dean angled his hips towards Castiel, hoping for a hand between his legs, but Castiel was too busy washing Dean’s chest. Dean opened his eyes, watching Castiel work in an almost ritualistic manner, cupping water, spilling it over Dean’s heart, following it with kisses.

 

“Hmmhh, yeah...” Dean couldn’t help the sigh that escaped him.

 

It didn’t take Dean long to realise he enjoyed how this felt. He kinda liked that Castiel’s penis wasn’t hard, that he looked into Dean’s eyes with adoration and not desire, that he cared more about baptising Dean than sinning with him. Dean didn’t recall ever being treated like a person to love before he was a warm body to fuck, and altogether he found the whole experience kind of... magical.

 

Castiel washed Dean’s hands – every water-wrinkled finger, then under his nails. He washed Dean’s ears – making him laugh; it was too silly not to laugh. He washed Dean’s face, wiping away the salty remainders of his tears. He kissed Dean’s arms, bathing his skin afterwards until it ran dripping with shimmers.

 

He kissed Dean’s belly, chin pushing into the softest part below his navel as Castiel gazed up, holding Dean’s eyes. Dean stared back in wonder. His softening erection was curved against Castiel’s throat and yet its softness didn’t feel like a disappointment.

 

Castiel kissed Dean’s heart, hands washing Dean’s stomach below, out of sight.

 

Under the surface of the bathwater, Castiel rubbed down Dean’s thighs, mapping out the bowed shape of his frame, hands curling past his hips to meet Dean’s knees. He paused, then slid his hands back up, the backward twist of wet leg hair making Dean writhe, on the edge of ticklish. Castiel grinned, mouthing a kiss against Dean’s lips.

 

“Yes!” Dean gasped, wanting a touch on his inner thighs. “Right there, right there...” Castiel’s hands had skimmed so close. “C’mon. Please. Please.”

 

Tempted by Dean’s begging, Castiel allowed his hands to explore a more intimate area of Dean’s body. Dean’s eyes rolled back in pleasure as wide hands massaged the most sensitive part of his thighs, holding his darkest skin and his thickest hair.

 

Dean felt his cock filling with blood once again, and he gripped the back of Castiel’s neck, panting out little noises of want. “Please. Pleasepleaseplease.”

 

Though his eyes were closed and he didn’t see, Dean felt floppy hair brush his temple: Castiel shook his head no.

 

Dean whined, opening his eyes. “Why? Cas... Is it me? Is my dick ugly to you? Does me being a man disgust you?”

 

“No,” Castiel chuckled. “No, not at all—”

 

“Is it because of what I used to do? All— All those other people?”

 

“Nothing like that, Dean, no,” Castiel said quietly, though his tone was harsh. “I don’t want to,” he whispered, sounding apologetic now. “That’s all it is. I’m sorry. I don’t understand, I just— I don’t want... that. With anyone. I never have.”

 

Dean peered at Castiel, looking from one eye to the other, hoping he’d see a real explanation there. “But you love me.”

 

“Yes. And I want to kiss you, Dean, I do. But—”

 

“It’s just a dick,” Dean grinned. “You have one yourself. There’s nothin’ to be scared of.”

 

“I’m not scared,” Castiel said, kissing Dean’s chin with his words. “I can’t explain it. The idea of touching you like that almost _repulses_ me. I just want to wash you, Dean. Just let me do that. Please don’t make me do more.”

 

Dean stared at the ceiling in bafflement as Castiel kissed his neck again, nuzzling affectionately. “I repulse you?” Dean asked under his breath.

 

“No. No, no, Dean,” Castiel whispered, shaking his head against Dean’s shoulder, kissing him over and over. “Not at all. You’re... You’re attractive to me. Handsome and— Alluring. I love how you speak, and I love your eyelashes and your freckles and the shape of your hands. Your shoulders, your legs; how you do up your shirts; mmh! The way you turn your chairs backwards when you sit. You smell incredible, even your sweat. Even your _sweat_ , Dean. I wanna... mmmmmhmm... kiss you. Kiss you everywhere. And hold you.” He pulled back, meeting Dean’s eyes with dark, eager passion. “Cradle you until you fall asleep. And _while_ you sleep...” His eyelashes fluttered, and he quickly lowered his gaze, smiling to himself.

 

“But you don’t wanna make me come,” Dean muttered. “Cas, I don’t get it.”

 

“I don’t expect you to,” Castiel sighed, hanging his head. “I was going to try. I was thinking about it tonight; I wanted to try. But the idea of actually... _doing_ it...” He gulped, his expression frozen.

 

He was evidently uncomfortable, and while Dean didn’t understand, he could see Castiel would rather not think about it. Dean himself knew too much about being asked to do things he didn’t want to do. He wasn’t in any position to make Castiel do the same.

 

So Dean kissed him, driving hard into the contact. He soon broke the kiss with a smile, licking his plump lips. “Hold me, then,” he said. “And kiss me. And wash me. Whatever you want. Don’t worry about it, Cas. It’s okay. _Hey_. It’s okay.” He gave Castiel another kiss, because he only looked half-relieved. “I’m happy that you’ve even here with me, I shouldn’t go pushin’ my luck now. I— I, uh... cherish you, in exchange for nothing. Whatever it was, that poetic shit you said.”

 

Castiel finally gave a smile of gratitude, a relieved shine in his eyes. “But what if I _never_ want to make love to you?”

 

Dean shrugged a shoulder. “It’s still you. You’re still the one.” He kissed Castiel carefully, slowly, and deeply, to make sure Castiel understood Dean meant what he said.

 

Castiel’s sigh shuddered over Dean’s chin and chest as he broke their kiss. He surprised Dean: he took him around the waist and rolled both their bodies together, sliding in the water like otters until Castiel lay on his back, supported by the bathtub, and Dean pressed against his stomach. Dean’s erection went untouched, and though it ached, Dean was determined not to make a fuss of his pain. Castiel only wanted to hold him close, so that was all they would do.

 

Dean settled his face against the crook of Castiel’s neck, nosing at his throat. A wet hand stroked Dean’s hair against the growth, massaging the base of his skull, sending rushes of sensation all through his scalp and down his back. Dean hummed, eyes half-open, one hand holding Castiel’s muscular shoulder, the other braced against Castiel’s ribs. Their legs interlocked, bent around each other, stretching all the way to the far end of the bath.

 

Castiel kissed Dean’s cheek, smiling. Then he kissed one eyelid, and Dean snorted with laughter.

 

“That’s funny to you?” Castiel smirked.

 

“Only _you_ would think to kiss someone’s eyeball, Cas,” Dean remarked fondly.

 

“Is it really so strange?” Castiel asked. “Your eyes are pretty. I merely want to show my appreciation.”

 

Dean blushed, smiling against Castiel’s neck. “Ugh. You’re makin’ me nauseous with all this lovey-dovey talk.”

 

“Am I now,” Castiel replied, clearly not believing a word of it. He kissed Dean’s earlobe, then snuffled against it until Dean squeaked and rolled onto his back and writhed forward, trying to get away from the tickle.

 

“Get back here!” Castiel laughed, grabbing Dean’s waist, making Dean guffaw, arching back so their skin stuck together, Dean’s spine to Castiel’s chest. “Don’t you go swimming away, little fish.”

 

“Aah, you caught me,” Dean gasped, grinning up at the ceiling, watching the candlelight flicker in the waves of air they’d disturbed. “You got me, jaybird. Don’t let go, now.”

 

Castiel hummed a laugh, smooching Dean’s neck from behind. He hauled Dean closer along with a slosh of water, and now his arms could wrap all the way around Dean’s middle, crossing at his heart. Dean gave himself over to the embrace, head lolling back on Castiel’s shoulder. A spiral of sparkling pleasure descended through him as Castiel started to suck gently on his neck, soft wet noises created below Dean’s right ear.

 

“Hmmmm,” Dean purred, fingers clenching and unclenching. His thighs shifted in the water, squirming ever so slightly. “Mm, feels good.”

 

“Good,” Castiel whispered, nosing and kissing some more. He sucked on a different part of Dean’s neck, this time a little slower, and Dean shivered, biting his own lip without even thinking about it.

 

“Auh...” Dean’s breath hitched. Tender, tingly feelings burst one-by-one all around his body, centering below his navel, where a lustful tension yet again began to form. “Cas...” Dean frowned, becoming aware of his arousal. “Cas, you’re making me hard...”

 

“That’s all right,” Castiel said softly, between kisses. “That doesn’t bother me so much.”

 

“It... It’s not that. It kinda hurts.”

 

“Oh.” Castiel lifted his head, and Dean suddenly felt cold now those sweet kisses had abandoned him. Dean whimpered, craving more touches.

 

“What can I give you, Dean?” Castiel asked. “I don’t know what to do now.”

 

Dean swallowed, turning his head: he saw Castiel’s nose and his bottom lashes, not much more. “Um. I— I wanna kiss more. More on my neck. I liked that. I can just ignore what’s happenin’ down there.” He tried to forget the throbbing sensation between his legs, but saying aloud what he wanted had only gone and excited him further. The moment Castiel returned to sucking on Dean’s neck, Dean’s breath caught and released, a flash of heat going straight to his cockhead. He felt his erection twitch by itself, begging for touch.

 

“Shit... Cas, I— I gotta... ‘M sorry...” Dean slid his left hand down between his legs and stroked the veiny underside of his cock, keeping his mouth closed so his cry of relief was muffled. He breathed deeply through his nose, frowning. He tried to act like touching himself wasn’t doing a thing for him, but in truth he was pulsing with heat, his skin singing with delight from his head to his toes. He gasped, grabbing the tip of his erection and working the loose skin over the head, over and over in a desperate, ceaseless jerking movement.

 

He began to pant, his free hand flung back to hold Castiel’s shoulder, wordlessly asking for reassurance that it was okay to do this in his presence.

 

Castiel’s only response was to kiss Dean’s neck even more seductively, one hand in Dean’s hair, massaging him breathless. As if all that wasn’t overwhelming enough, Castiel then decided to put a chain of those incredibly bristly lovebites behind Dean’s ear, right where Dean was just-now discovering he was most sensitive.

 

“Oh, fuck,” Dean whispered, grinning, then frowning and wheezing, then taking huge big gulps of air as Castiel’s free hand moved to rub Dean’s nipple. “Oh-fuckfuckfuck _yes_ ,” Dean growled, legs kicking in the water to push himself closer to Castiel. He now let out uncensored noises of pleasure, one escaping with every huff of breath. “Ah – ha – ah – nh – yes – Cas – yes – yes – yes – mmhmh—”

 

“Yes,” Castiel echoed, nodding against Dean’s neck. “Dean...” He dragged his swollen lips against Dean’s ear, mouthing at him. “Oh, that must feel so good.”

 

Dean laughed and nodded mid-jerk, trembling in Castiel’s arms so much that the water had become turbulent. Dean’s knees pressed to either side of the bath, his hand a blur between his parted thighs.

 

“I’mma come,” Dean panted. “Oh, God. Auuhh. Cas. Cas. Hold me. Hold— Cas—”

 

“I’m right here.”

 

“I know. I know— Ah!” Dean took Castiel’s hand and gripped it hard, for no reason other than because Castiel had set it within holding distance. “Mmh. Mhh. Mhmm—” Dean bit his lip, shutting his eyes tight. He’d forgotten about this, he’d forgotten what it was like to actually care about the person around him, beside him, inside him. He’d forgotten how it felt to orgasm onto his own skin – _yes!_ – and feel a furious glow within him as well as outside, passion burning, hot skin pressed in contact with his. He’d forgotten how genuine shared pleasure felt, until now.

 

Dean sighed, relaxing completely against Castiel. Their hands slid apart, and Castiel moved to rock Dean side-to-side, kissing his blushing cheek, nuzzling him.

 

“Mmh,” Dean said, patting Castiel’s arm to show his appreciation. “Thank you. Ahh...”

 

Castiel grinned, kissing Dean yet again. “You’re so welcome, my darling.”

 

They canoodled together in the bath for a while longer, resting until Dean had enough strength to sit up. Blinking back sleep, he reached to pull out the plug and empty out the bathwater. He had no doubt the water was filthy now, so he grabbed a jug from beside a group of candles, and he filled it with fresh water from the bath faucet.

 

Castiel got his satisfaction from washing Dean once more: combing fingers through shimmering wet hair, watching the candle light dance in the slosh of poured water. They stood together in the tub, and Castiel touched Dean all over, fingers skimming every part of him. Dean laughed when Castiel asked him to bend over to wash his behind. Of course it was something he needed to do anyway, so he obeyed despite his shyness. Dean didn’t let Castiel see that particular blush.

 

Castiel knelt to wash Dean’s feet after that. Every toe.

 

Dean then returned the favour. He rinsed Castiel down, hair and chest and legs. Ass and feet included. Castiel moved as he was asked without a second thought. The fellow went through life too at-ease to be hesitant about something like baring his body, unlike Dean. Again, Dean was the one who blushed.

 

Castiel stepped out of the bath as confidently as he’d stepped in, and he wrapped Dean up in his bath towel like a child, long before he thought to dry himself.

 

With a playful grin, Dean caught Castiel around the middle and brought him into the towel huddle, where they traded kisses and touches while drying off.

 

They didn’t talk about where they would sleep. They blew out the candles, then Castiel simply followed Dean to bed, and Dean shifted over far enough that Castiel could slip in beside him. There didn’t seem to be a reason to dress first. Dean thought it was nice to feel Castiel’s skin against his own, both of them just on the tacky side of almost-dry.

 

The sun was coming up as Dean closed his eyes; the linen strapped over his bedroom window was starting to turn blue. That was fine. Dean only needed a short nap, and then he’d get up for work...

  
«··· ✧✦✧ ···»


	6. Sam's Burnt Toast

“Dean!”

 

Dean sat bolt upright, sniffing. “Wha?”

 

“It’s after six,” Sam said, lightly whapping a rolled-up newspaper on the top of Dean’s head. “Did you forget to set your alarm clock? It’s Monday. You’re late for work.”

 

Dean blinked hard, feeling dizzy and sick from being awoken so abruptly. He chewed on nothing, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Hmmgh.”

 

“And, um... morning, Castiel,” Sam said.

 

Castiel stirred in place beside Dean, lifting his hand from where it had been placed on Dean’s waist. He sat up slowly, eyes shifting to Dean.

 

Dean let out a slow, measured breath. “Um. Sam.” His voice crackled, thick with sleep. “Would you mind, uh, giving us some privacy? Just for a second. Please.”

 

“Sure thing,” Sam said. “I’ll make us some breakfast.” He offered a flat, friendly smile, his curiosity about Dean and Castiel’s obvious nudity visible in his eyes. He left Dean’s bedroom, leaving the door open a crack, the way Dean usually left it. For once, Dean wished he’d closed it completely.

 

“Shit,” Dean whispered, breathing into his hands. “ _Shit_.”

 

“I forgot you have an actual job,” Castiel admitted, scowling at himself. “We shouldn’t have slept.”

 

Dean snorted, pinching his thumb and forefinger against the inner corners of his screwed-up eyes. “God. I can’t even stay home and explain myself. I gotta go or I’ll get the sack. Billie’s generous but she has her limits.” He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He turned his gaze to the ceiling, seeing a flutter of sunlight appearing and disappearing, crooked on the crown moulding. “Cas,” he breathed, “I need you to do me a favour.”

 

“Anything,” Castiel said, placing a hand over Dean’s. Dean curled up his fist, two of Castiel’s fingers linked between his own.

 

“I need you to stick around for breakfast,” Dean said, frowning in despair at the wrinkled blankets in Castiel’s lap. “You gotta tell Sam you ‘n me didn’t... y’know. Have sex.”

 

“Technically we didn’t.”

 

“Yeah.” Dean licked his lips. “But that’s gonna be hard to prove. Sam just saw me sleeping naked in your arms. Imagine what’s going through his head right now.”

 

Castiel swallowed, nodding solemnly. “He wouldn’t try and hurt you, would he?”

 

“No,” Dean said, almost laughing. But then he reconsidered. “I... I don’t think so.” He breathed out, staring ahead, where his clothes for the day were hung over the back of a chair. His eyebrows rose. “I don’t know.”

 

Castiel gave Dean’s hand another reassuring squeeze. “I’ll take care of it. You get to work.”

 

“Thanks.” Dean leaned in and gave Castiel a quick kiss. Then he got out of bed, and in a rush fast enough to keep his heart thumping in his throat, he dressed himself, hopping and panting. Shorts, socks, shirt, pants and suspenders, tie, waistcoat. Tie pin.

 

He went to the bathroom, washed up as fast as he could, then returned to the main room, heading past the kitchen area. As he went by, he grabbed the slice of toast that Sam held over his shoulder for him to take. “Thanks, Sammy,” Dean said, cramming a bite in his mouth. He hurried back to his bedroom, leaning in to kiss Castiel one more time before he left. “Be seein’ ya, Cas,” he promised, then darted out of the room.

 

With a last wave to his brother and a call of farewell, Dean ran to the front door, grabbed his hat, and took off down the hallway in a sprint.

 

«··· ✧✦✧ ···»

 

Sam watched the front door swing closed, slamming shut under its own weight. He busied himself buttering toast, putting more bread into the toaster just to have something to do. Dean had left a quarter-loaf, which was far more than Sam needed.

 

Sam couldn’t help but think back to what he’d discovered upon coming home from work: six in the morning but no breakfast, no Dean putting on his precious tie pin while humming show tunes... instead, nude in his bed, wrapped comfortably in the embrace of his best friend.

 

The memory made Sam frown, feeling a distressed kind of bewilderment. How did they end up like that? Did the wine they drank affect them deeply enough that they forewent rational thought and fell into bed together? Sam had trodden on shards of shattered glass beneath his shoes as he’d come home that morning, and the alley reeked of wine. He didn’t think could’ve had all that much to drink. How did the bottle break? Had they fought? Had they fought so passionately they ended up wrestling, and somehow found themselves...

 

Sam forced away his thoughts, alarmed by the direction they’d taken. Dean and Castiel couldn’t have wanted each other like that. It wasn’t possible. Dean simply wasn’t that way inclined. He couldn’t be.

 

Could he...?

 

With a disturbed breath, Sam turned his head, seeing Castiel emerge from Dean’s bedroom. His hair was awkwardly rumpled like it had dried against the pillow, his jaw was dark with stubble, his eyes were bleary, and he wandered forward without looking, kept occupied with the buttons on one of Dean’s collared work shirts. The shirt was loose on him, but it didn’t look bad on his wide-shouldered frame. He rolled up the sleeves, and all of a sudden, he looked perfectly at home. Like Dean sometimes took to doing, he wasn’t wearing a thing on his legs apart from shorts, plus the suspenders holding up his socks. After a second, Sam realised those were _Dean’s_ shorts and socks. He’d put them through the laundry enough times to recognise them.

 

“Toast?” Sam offered, piling half-blackened bread crisps onto a plate. “We have jam somewhere.”

 

“Yes, please. Thank you.” Castiel gave a forced smile, cheeks pushed high by tense muscles.

 

“You okay?” Sam asked as he searched a cupboard for a pot of jam. “You, uh... sleep all right?”

 

“Very well. Thank you.” Castiel again gave Sam a fake smile. “We didn’t—” Castiel paused, inhaling through his mouth, eyes cast low. “I didn’t sleep long, but it was restful.”

 

“How was the wine?” Sam asked casually, pulling a clean knife out of the cutlery pot. “I saw the bottle got broken, I was wondering how that happened...”

 

“Dean kicked it by mistake. Up until then, it tasted... quite flavoursome.”

 

“Oh. That’s good.” Sam cleared his throat and scraped some jam sparingly onto the toast. “H-How did, uh...” He licked his lips. “How did you end up— What I mean is— Did you and Dean—”

 

“Dean wants me to assure you that we did not have sexual intercourse.”

 

“Okay.” Sam gulped, feeling hot under his collar. “If that’s what Dean told you to say, is that the truth?”

 

Castiel was silent for a while. “Ah,” he said, all sheepish when Sam turned to look at him. Castiel didn’t blush, but he did look embarrassed when he met Sam’s eyes, taking the plate of toast he offered. “We didn’t.”

 

“Okay.” Sam let some of his tension go, shoulders relaxing. “Okay,” he repeated, nodding as he moved around the dining table, sitting down in his usual chair. He shifted his folded newspaper out of the way to make room for his plate. “It’s not unusual, you know,” Sam mentioned, when Castiel took Dean’s place at the table.

 

“Wh—?” Castiel had just taken a huge bite of toast, and now looked at Sam with big, round eyes. Perhaps he hadn’t heard over the sound of toast crunching.

 

Sam smiled. “Sharing a bed with a friend. It’s not unusual. Dean and I used to share a bed when we couldn’t afford two.” He picked up one of his own toasts, gazing thoughtfully at the strawberry seeds in the jelly. “We never slept like you two, though. We went head-to-toe. Fully clothed.”

 

“M-hm.” Castiel lowered his eyes hastily, cheeks moving as he chewed. “This jam is good.”

 

“I made it myself,” Sam said with a proud smile. “Dean and I saved up to buy the best strawberries at the market.”

 

Castiel was quiet for a while, eating while Sam ate. Sam got the feeling he was being analysed, scrutinised, and thoroughly considered, even though Castiel didn’t look at him once. A heavy tension hung in the air between them.

 

Sam cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Out of curiosity, when are you and Dean planning to go travelling?” he asked. “I assume you’ve talked about a date. That pin is worth a year’s wages, Dean told me. Heh! That oughta get you someplace interesting. Where first? Canada? Europe? Mexico might be too hot this time of year. Unless you’re planning to delay until fall or winter, you’ll want to go north first.”

 

“Oh.” Castiel stared. “Dean... hasn’t had the chance to tell you.”

 

“Tell me what?” Sam asked, taking another bite of his toast.

 

Castiel lowered his eyes. “Dean decided to stay in the city, for now. He says... He says he wants to keep the tie pin.” He sagged, rubbing a palm across his forehead as he sighed. “Serves me right for wanting to impress him with jewellery rather than cash.”

 

All of a sudden, Castiel’s expression softened, and he started to look heartbroken. He soon caught himself slipping; his jaw set and his face hardened into a more neutral expression, and he peered at Sam. “He’s scared, Sam. Despite what he says, despite how handsome he looks wearing it, he isn’t keeping the tie pin because it’s ‘pretty’. He resists my help, wanting to maintain his financial independence. It’s about wanting to keep—” he gestured around at the tiny apartment, “all of this. And you. He said he doesn’t want to leave you. That you need him.”

 

Sam scoffed. “Well... yeah,” he said, frowning slightly. “It’s a good excuse to stay as any. He took care of me all my life. He still does. I mean, he’s the only one who works the toaster without burning the bread, for crying out loud.” Sam grinned softly, but Castiel shook his head, looking away.

 

“You must be happy he’s staying,” Castiel said. “Now you’ll always have perfect toast.”

 

“Hey, Dean can do what he likes. I _like_ my toast burnt.”

 

Castiel raised his eyebrows. A smile played at the corner of his mouth, but it lingered only briefly before his face clouded with frustration again. “I never should’ve suggested this,” Castiel uttered, more to himself than Sam. “Dean was happy with his head up in the clouds until my real-world solution pinned him back down. He’s a practised dreamer. Fantasy was always what he lived for, it was what he looked forward to when he got home. It was his escape, ever since— Ever since he and I met. That was five years ago, now. Our fairytales and our music got him through a particularly bad time in his life. You’re observant; I’m sure his difference in mood back then didn’t escape your notice. I thought I could make his dreams a _reality_ , Sam. But he doesn’t know what to do with a dream come true! He’s never had one before.”

 

“And how,” Sam replied with a sigh. He peered thoughtfully across the table at Castiel, watching him chomp at his toast. “Say,” Sam started, “what would it take to make him change his mind? Make him want to leave more than he wants to stay. As much as I love him, he needs to get his own damn life.”

 

Castiel immediately looked wary. “I’ve tried, Sam. I’ve tried convincing him. I attempted to force his decision last night, offering him something I thought he wouldn’t be able to resist. Alas...” Castiel’s gaze lowered, lips pressing together in defeat. “It’s best if he decides by himself, of his own volition. I’ve promised to wait for as long as it takes for him to choose. If it takes years before he’s ready to travel, so be it.”

 

“What if he insists on staying, even then?”

 

Castiel’s eyes caught Sam’s, startling him with their ferocity. “Then I will stay with him,” Castiel said, with absolute conviction.

 

Sam let out a small huff of air. “Huh.”

 

He hesitated, then ate some more toast, chewing slowly.

 

Sam watched Castiel, and found him to be distracted. Castiel ate with one hand, while the fingers of his other hand moved on the tabletop, fast and rhythmic, like he’d forgotten to pick up his trumpet before playing a tune.

 

It seemed to Sam that Castiel was more than just _close_ to Dean. The two of them were downright intimate. Sam would’ve presumed the pair were like his own pals he’d befriended during the Great War: together through thick or thin, always ready to support and defend each other. Except Sam had found both Dean and Castiel’s discarded clothes on the bathroom floor earlier, underwear included. And now Castiel had near-enough professed his intention to stay by Dean’s side forever. Adding all that to the fact they’d been discovered in bed together, Sam was very rapidly coming to suspect that the manner in which Castiel spoke about Dean was not intended purely in the way of friendship.

 

What of the trip they had planned, then...?

 

Perhaps their devotion was unanimous. Perhaps Dean dreamed of running away with his lover, wanting to hide from the prying eyes that were always watching in the city. Those eyes would not look kindly upon two enamoured men.

 

Oh, how Sam prickled with sadness. Dean had hidden this from him for so long, afraid. Dean had to be scared out of his wits that Sam might hate him if he learned of his feelings for Castiel. It hurt that Dean couldn’t trust Sam to know, couldn’t trust anyone to know. And for good reason.

 

Though an uncomfortable feeling was present within him, Sam refused to think badly of Dean. Not for being stuck on Castiel, nor for hiding his crush. Dean was Sam’s only brother, and that meant something to them both. Dean had forgiven a lot of Sam in the past; it was only fair to accept his faults in return. They went through life that way, forgiving and forgetting and moving on, so they could focus their energies on the problems that really mattered.

 

But was there really anything to forgive this time? Was this a falter in Dean’s step? Or was this just Dean being himself, as he had always been?

 

As Sam ate, watching Castiel, he supposed he could see how someone like Dean might find Castiel attractive. Castiel had a handsome, well-defined face, a svelte yet muscular figure, and a posture that reflected self-assurance despite his slouch. As a person, he was evidently both imaginative and generous. When he spoke, he spoke deeply and boldly – and Dean enjoyed bold types, he’d always been drawn to them. And that wasn’t even mentioning Castiel’s skill for music. Should those drumming-drumming fingers have been pressing to a trumpet’s valves rather than a tabletop, Sam was sure, even someone like himself could potentially become as deeply bewitched as Dean.

 

Dean was the sort of man who loved danger. As a teenager, he’d whoop for joy as he leapt onto a moving train, with Sam right behind him, shaking with nerves. As a grown man, Dean took risks at a pool table, he drank despite the prohibition, and he read books about gunfights and cowboys and crimes that weren’t meant to be solved. Where Sam liked to follow the rules, Dean took pleasure in finding ways to bend them, or even break them completely. It followed that loving Castiel must be exciting for Dean. Hiding their relationship might have been part of the fun. Making love to a man was illegal and indecent and therefore thrilling, and that was precisely the kind of feeling Dean sought out.

 

Yeah. Falling for someone like Castiel had been practically inevitable for Dean. Sam understood.

 

“I hope Dean does agree to leave with you,” Sam said. Castiel’s fingers ceased their drumming. He blinked and met Sam’s gaze, and Sam smiled. “I’m not just saying that because I want the apartment to myself. Honestly, Cas, I think you’re... you’re good for him. Some time away from me would be good for him. Time... spent alone with you. You deserve that,” Sam added kindly, nudging an open hand across the table, an inch towards Castiel. “You deserve to enjoy privacy with him, you know? I have no business knowing what you do together, and neither does anyone else.”

 

Castiel nodded, but he didn’t seem to comprehend the underlying meaning of what Sam said. He wasn’t as acquainted with Sam’s intonation as he was with Dean’s – perhaps it had been hard to catch. Dean always remarked how sometimes Castiel needed certain things spelled out. But, this time, Sam decided to let it go. He didn’t want to say aloud that he thought they were lovers, in case he was wrong. And even if Sam was right, it would be a dangerous thing for Castiel to admit.

 

“At the risk of eating my words about minding my own business,” Sam began, with a small chuckle, “out of curiousity, what, uh... what did you offer him? You said you tried to give him something, right? What is it you thought he couldn’t resist? Because as much as he adores his food, I don’t think a lifetime supply of pie would be an easy thing to give him, in terms of practicality.”

 

Castiel’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and his gaze shifted along the table’s edge. “It wasn’t pie I offered.”

 

“May I ask what?”

 

Castiel peered at Sam. Fine wrinkles showed beneath his eyes as he squinted discerningly.

 

Sam stared back, wondering what on Earth Castiel was preparing to tell him.

 

It wasn’t long before Castiel’s face relaxed, and he gave a nod, as if he’d come to a conclusion. “Wait here,” he said, before slinking off towards the bathroom.

 

When he returned a few seconds later, Castiel answered all of Sam’s questions with one movement: he stretched out his hand and showed off a blue gem, twinkling on his palm. It was cut neatly into a traditional diamond shape, every edge beautifully sharp, each flat facet catching the light a different way.

 

“Oh my God,” Sam breathed.

 

“It rolled under the bathtub,” Castiel said, taking his seat again. “Either Dean or I must’ve kicked it when we were in there.”

 

He suddenly turned very pink on the cheeks, and began stuttering excuses and explanations about why he and Dean had been in the bathroom at the same time – but Sam neither comprehended nor cared about whatever stories Castiel thought to make up now. Another truth had hit Sam hard, and for a second or two, he felt unable to breathe.

 

Castiel was still muttering nervously, but Sam ignored him. Instead he reached for the newspaper on the table, which he’d picked up on the way home from the courthouse that morning. It was folded; he turned it over. The front page article stood out, bold and furious, with a grainy black-and-white photograph of a gem printed below.

 

**_DIAMOND STOLEN FROM NEW YORK GALLERY_ **

 

The article had only been printed an hour ago, perhaps two; the newspaper had quite literally been hot off the press when Sam picked it up.

 

“Oh,” Castiel said, finally seeing what Sam was looking at.

 

With his heart in his throat, Sam bent his head to read the sub-headings.

 

**_Inspector Confesses Thief Slipped Past Guards Unnoticed_ **

——

**_Calling Card Left at Scene: Is This Another PAPER JAYBIRD Heist?_ **

 

“This was you,” Sam said, hearing the tremor in his own voice. “This was _you_. This is where you got that gemstone— And that _pin_. You’re a thief. You’re a jewel thief.”

 

“Yes.” Castiel turned his head. “And a good one, at that.”

 

Sam exhaled in a blast, astonished at Castiel’s flippant manner. “You won’t even deny it.”

 

“Why would I? I don’t lie. At least not to my friends, if I can help it.” Castiel tipped his gaze pointedly towards the newspaper, then looked back at Sam. “This is what I do, Sam. It’s my job. It’s no different to what you do.”

 

“Wh— How?! In what way is stealing other people’s things the same as researching notes for court cases?! That’s not the same, that’s not even remotely the same. I’m a law clerk. You’re the Paper Jaybird. You’re a _thief_.”

 

“I am many things, and a thief is one of them, yes,” Castiel agreed. “Primarily I’m a musician. But I can’t pay for food just by playing my music, not unless I busk for pocket change in the street. Like Dean – and like most people, I suppose – I don’t want to be held at the mercy of someone else.”

 

“So you steal.”

 

“I take what I need,” Castiel corrected. “As far as I’m concerned it’s no more immoral than what you do, finding reasons and methods to charge criminals, not truly knowing if they’re guilty or not. Me, I see something valuable, no longer in use, and I renew its original purpose. A tie pin becomes an item of jewellery once again, not a decoration inside a locked safe. A diamond becomes a trading piece.

 

“This,” he said, stroking a thumb over the blue diamond, “is the Kobalt Nocturne. It was sitting alone in a _crate_ at the back of a vault in a sculpture gallery. A rock as fantastic as this deserves more than that, Sam. The world outside that vault is going hungry. There’s no shortage of money, despite what the local press may have you believe. The stock market is soaring, mechanical production and business is at an all-time peak. Things are always the same: the wealth is severely unbalanced between the rich and the poor.

 

“So, what use is a diamond?” Castiel queried, not expecting an answer. “The woman who owned it had enough to live by. More than enough. The value of this diamond was meaningless to her. There’s no sentimental attachment – it was an investment, once upon a time. What good is a shiny piece of rock to Lady Bentley now? None whatsoever. But to us...? To you, Sam. To your friends. The people around you, the people who need it. Imagine being able to give them the food they need every day. That’s all. Imagine that.”

 

While Castiel had been speaking, Sam had bent forward, his elbows on his parted thighs, hands clutched together. Now, he looked up at Castiel, mouth open in wonder. He shook his head. “It was you,” he said.

 

“What was?” Castiel squinted.

 

“You. _You_ slipped a packet of hundred-dollar bills under the door. Years ago.”

 

Castiel bowed his head, lips tightening to hide a smile. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Liar,” Sam said, smiling. “You don’t realise how much that meant to us, Cas. Being able to work in the daytime, not having to sweep the streets every night, that changed Dean’s life. He was so much happier afterwards.”

 

“No, no, I know,” Castiel said quietly. “That was my first heist. I knew what I was doing, more-or-less.”

 

“And you never asked for thanks.”

 

“That’s not why I do it. I do it because I can, and I see no reason not to. Wouldn’t you? If you knew with absolute certainty that you could steal something unnoticed, harming nobody, and subsequently be able to help those you care about get what they need to survive, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Of course I would,” Sam said. He felt ashamed to say it, but he remained strong in his vehemence. He would. Anyone would.

 

“Well, then...” Castiel said, sentence trailing off as he looked into Sam’s eyes.

 

Sam wasn’t sure how he’d been talked into it, but he found himself forgiving Castiel. His motives made perfect sense to Sam.

 

“All right,” Sam said, nodding. “You’re probably a wanted criminal, aren’t you?”

 

“I’m not,” Castiel said, almost smugly. “No crime has ever been traced back to Castiel Hartley.”

 

“Oh-ho!” Sam chuckled, making fun of Castiel, just lightly. They both grinned.

 

“This was meant for Dean,” Castiel smiled, turning the gem between careful fingers, showing Sam how it fractured the light, casting starlight across the whole room, the brightest specks gleaming on their faces.

 

“And he wouldn’t take it?” Sam said, in awe. “What, is he crazy?”

 

“He had his reasons,” Castiel replied calmly. “But he doesn’t yet know about my, ah-ha... moonlighting escapades.”

 

“Are you going to tell him?” Sam asked. “I don’t want to be the one protecting your secret from my brother.” Hurriedly, he added, “Not that I _can’t_ keep a secret! If there’s anything I can do, it’s keep secrets.” He smiled, hoping he looked trustworthy.

 

Castiel’s eyes were crinkled with amusement. “Should he consent to being told, yes, I will tell him. After we sell this diamond, that is. It’s far too valuable to keep around.”

 

“‘We’,” Sam repeated.

 

“Yes, ‘we’. You know my greatest secret, now,” Castiel said. “Either we become partners in crime, or we become enemies. And quite frankly, I like you, Sam. I’d prefer not to have to tell Dean I’ve made an enemy of his only brother.”

 

Sam huffed out a laugh, pretending he wasn’t deeply intimidated by his neighbour. Castiel looked at Sam the way a tree-dwelling jaguar might look at a lost deer a few hours before dinnertime.

 

“Partners?” Castiel asked, holding out a hand to shake.

 

On Sam’s face rose a smile, and throughout his whole body he felt a childish thrill. Setting aside the fact he worked as a law clerk in a building often crawling with coppers, Sam Winchester stuck out his hand, and shook hands with a notorious criminal.

  
«··· ✧✦✧ ···»


	7. When Your Lover is Front Page News

“Take a card, any card.” Dean showed Charlie the whole pack, one by one, flip-flip-flip. Charlie stopped him, and took out a card. “Don’t show me,” Dean reminded her. “Memorise it. You got it?”

 

Charlie nodded, and Dean took the card back with a disarming grin. Meanwhile, he made sure he ran the pad of his thumb over the flipside of the card. With the card tucked back into the pack, unseen, Dean shuffled the whole deck, first breaking the stack and interlocking them at the corners, then jiggling them fast in his hands, and finally asking Charlie to cut the deck for him, twice.

 

Then he thumbed through his playing cards, face down, his eyes set on Charlie in front of him. “Oh, not that one, not that one. No, no...” He grinned, pulling out one particular card. “There. Now,” Dean said lightly, handing Charlie the chosen playing card, not looking at it. “Tell me what card you picked out earlier.”

 

“Queen of Clubs.”

 

Dean raised his eyebrows and smirked. “Now look at this card.”

 

Charlie turned over the card Dean had picked from the pack. “No way. No _way_. Queen of Clubs!”

 

Dean ducked his head, glowing with satisfaction. “So what’dya think?”

 

“That’s incredible!” Charlie shook her head in awe, turning the Queen of Clubs over again, staring at the red fish on the back. “God, that’s... Phew.” She reached out and handed Dean his card back, still grinning. “Attaboy.”

 

Billie passed by, peering at the pack of cards Dean now shuffled back into its packet. “Any chance you’ll tell us how you do it?” Billie asked.

 

“You know better than that,” Dean winked, grinning as Billie stalked off with a gleam in her eye. “Magicians and their tricks, ma’am. No revelations, not ever.”

 

“You came up with that trick yourself?” Charlie asked, sitting down in the shoe-shining chair, leaning back with her hands behind her head. When Dean half-nodded, she whistled an impressed note. “You could take on the world with mind games like that. Vaudeville extraordinaire.”

 

“Nah. I ain’t no Howard Thurston,” Dean shrugged, perching on one wooden arm of the chair, one shoe up next to Charlie’s knee. “It’s parlour magic. It’s dead simple stuff, too. I can entertain, what, five people at a time? It’s a show for a street corner, not a stage. There’s no money in it besides tips. I’m better off sticking to the mink oil and boot polish.” He patted his chair with a firm hand.

 

“You’re talented,” Charlie said seriously, leaning forward so she could grip Dean’s knee, and he could look down into her face and see her sincerity.

 

“Thanks,” Dean said, figuring he may as well accept the compliment. He smiled at the box of cards in his hands, rubbing his thumb around the tufty edges.

 

The picture of the fish looked up at him. That fish’s eyes were the only eyes in the world to have seen Dean’s second pack of cards in his pants pocket, and a whole box of untampered packs back home, all of them with fish on the back. He liked to collect them, as though having more cards somehow made him better at using them.

 

Dean took a deep breath, wondering if he could even handle the exposition of a street show. All his tricks were planned and practised weeks in advance, and relied heavily on knowing how to distract his marks beforehand. Whether or not he’d be able to fool strangers at a moment’s notice was another thing entirely. It didn’t matter how many tricks he memorised, or how fluidly his hands could move. He still felt like an amateur.

 

Dean was struck from his daydreams when Charlie began talking again. She was hanging up sautoir necklaces in a jewellery case, running her fingers down the beads, fluffing the tassels. She looked up and saw Dean’s expression, and smiled. “You didn’t hear a word of that, did you?”

 

“Uh.”

 

“Where do you even drift off to?” Charlie asked, trying on a necklace, then taking it off again. “Seems like recently you’re more often there than here.”

 

“Ahh, I dunno,” Dean muttered, tucking his cards into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Anywhere from a Broadway stage to a gondola in Venice.”

 

“...Trumpet Boy’s really got you head over heels, huh.”

 

“Did I say anything about Trumpet Boy?” Dean raised his eyebrows.

 

“You’ve practically got his name in lights in your eyes,” Charlie smiled. “It’s not Venice and a gondola you’re thinking of, it’s Venice and a gondola and Castiel.”

 

Dean hummed bashfully, rubbing the nape of his neck with a hand. There had been no distinct marks left on his neck, but he still felt the sensation of bewhiskered kisses all over his skin.

 

“Anything you care to tell us?” Charlie asked.

 

When Dean looked up, Billie slunk over and busied herself straightening jackets on coat hangers, but the pretence hid nothing: she was as curious about Dean’s romantic exploits as Charlie was.

 

“Oh, scram, would you,” Dean said, bristling. “My personal affairs ain’t none of your beeswax.”

 

“Oooh, that means something happened,” Charlie cheered. “Maybe we ought to wait until Cassie gets here, she’d want to know.”

 

“She doesn’t want to know,” Dean muttered quickly, waving a dismissive hand. “I get the feelin’ she ain’t over me-‘n-her just yet.”

 

Billie and Charlie both snorted at the same time.

 

“What?” Dean demanded.

 

Billie looked at Dean with great disdain. “That ain’t how it is, treasure. Cassie’s lo-o-ong done with you.”

 

“Well, isn’t that worse?!” Dean spread his hands. “She doesn’t need to know I broke up with her because I fell in love with a man!” Flustered now, he turned his face away and down, gnawing on nothing. “It wasn’t right, me daydreamin’ about Cas and then pretending my goofy smile was for her.

 

“God... I still care about her. So much. I needed her. When she – and all of you – when you came into my life I was a wreck. But... you know what Cassie’s like. I didn’t have what she needed. Could barely keep up with her.” Dean pressed his lips together, still sullen about times past.

 

“Cas said somethin’ to me last night, actually,” Dean said now, feeling a smile tug on his lips. “About the difference between being needed and being loved.” Billie and Charlie stood still, listening. Dean gulped. “I guess... Cassie was what I needed. That other job screwed me up; she was sane and – and committed. But what we had – it was us – _clinging_ to one another, hoping we could pull each other up the social ladder. I loved her, but I couldn’t do anything else for her. And how could I? I panicked every time she touched me. We couldn’t even be seen in public together. It was never going to work out.”

 

“What about Castiel?” Charlie asked, tilting her head.

 

Dean couldn’t help but grin. “Cas? Yeah. I could see him steering a gondola in Venice.” He chuckled, then shook his head. “Nah. Cas don’t need me. And I made it clear I don’t wanna be in a position where I need him. But we’re magnets, man. Who knows.” Dean shrugged, his grin curling higher up one side of his face. “He asked me again if I’d go with him. If I say no this time, he promised he’ll never ask again.”

 

“What will you say?!” Charlie chirped.

 

“Don’t know my answer yet,” Dean shrugged. “I’m as undecided as I was the night he gave me this tie pin. Kinda feels like I’ll make up my mind, drop of a hat, and I’ll be swimmin’ in the Seine before the end of the month.”

 

A new smile pushed onto Dean’s face, even bigger than the last. He gazed up at Charlie and beamed. “Best I know... hah! – he’s _right_ for me, Charlie. God, he’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I get lost in all these daydreams, I can imagine anything – yet I can’t even begin to imagine what I’d be without him. Maybe I don’t want to.”

 

The bell above the door tinkled, and a gust of putrid air washed through the shop, fading quickly among dust particles. Cassie was here now. She carried a roll of plain paper between her teeth, a newspaper in her hand, and a bag draped from her arm, containing all her writing equipment. She looked disturbed, but once she’d taken a deep breath of the shop’s comforting air, she relaxed a bit.

 

Pulling the paper roll from between her teeth, she uttered, “Morning.”

 

“Hey. How’s your mama?” Charlie asked, leaving Dean’s side and going to Cassie, helping her with her things.

 

“Getting sicker by the day,” Cassie said, pushing the heels of her hands into her eyes, then releasing. “Rent’s due tomorrow. I’m either paying for medicine or I’m paying for the roof over our head, God knows which.”

 

Dean slid off the arm of the shoe-shine chair and followed the women to the back of the shop. Cassie had her own writing desk set up there, with a bakelite telephone, a typewriter, and a spare inkwell.

 

Dean leaned on the big wooden desk that separated the shop side from the staff side, and he watched Charlie read over whatever Cassie had spent the night writing.

 

“Hey, Cassie?” Dean said. “Any chance you’d accept help in the form of, say... a tiny white sapphire?”

 

Cassie looked up sharply. Billie and Charlie soon followed suit, and Dean found himself at the centre of attention.

 

“I’m not asking for favours,” Cassie said, sitting down in her chair, hiding her face behind her bushy hair.

 

“The press moves fast, and Cassie writes fast,” Charlie said to Dean, looking at him pointedly. “There’s still a good nineteen hours until tomorrow’s paper goes to print. How about we give her a chance to make her own way, mm? And if that doesn’t work out by tonight, _then_ we can step in...” Charlie patted Cassie’s shoulder. “That sound fine to you, Cassie?”

 

Cassie froze up, but then nodded noncommittally.

 

Dean smiled. That was about as close as he’d ever seen Cassie come to accepting charity. If she actually agreed to take a white sapphire from his tie pin, it might well be a miracle.

 

“Leave me alone for a while,” Cassie said, shooing a hand at Charlie. “And thanks, girl.”

 

“Yelp if you need anything,” Charlie said. She spotted Cassie’s morning newspaper on the desk and picked it up. “Mind if I borrow this?”

 

Cassie just waved, all her thoughts already drawn to her work.

 

Charlie and Dean made their way back to the shoe-shining chair, and Charlie slumped into the recliner with a sigh. “How about a quick polish for the lady?” she smiled, offering Dean her dainty t-strap Mary Janes. Dean knelt at her feet and whipped a protective cloth over his lap, then cupped one foot in his hands, setting it comfortably on his thigh to begin.

 

With a shared smile, Dean and Charlie settled down for a quiet interlude. Charlie unfolded the newspaper and held it up, reading the front page. Dean brushed down Charlie’s shoes, sweeping away all the grime and dust. A fine crust littered his apron, and he let it collect until no more came off. Then he did the same for the other shoe.

 

Charlie yawned, muttered a polite, “Beg your pardon,” then turned the page of the paper, rustling it and folding it back and forth, trying to find a good angle. The pages were all one big sheet, so there was always some form of acrobatics to be done. She settled for resting one large fold over her hair while she read another page with her head cocked. Dean smirked. He’d once found the sight hilarious, but the joke was getting old now.

 

Dean moved on to apply a jet-black wax polish to Charlie’s right shoe, rubbing it on with his fingertips wrapped up in a thoroughly-stained rag. He turned his head this way and that, admiring how the tip of her shoe was now the shade of black it ought to be.

 

Yeah, Dean took satisfaction from this job. When his customers were quiet, he could just get on with doing what he did best. It could be therapeutic for both of them.

 

With a big, fluffy brush, Dean began buffing in the polish, bringing both shoes to an equal shine. He hummed quietly to himself, a cheerful tune that had been stuck in his head since Castiel last played it on his trumpet.

 

Charlie folded the newspaper again, then rotated it. Dean glanced up, noticing a dark photograph marring the otherwise grey paper. The front page was facing him, upside-down. But he didn’t need to read the headline to be startled by what he saw.

 

“The hell...?”

 

Charlie lowered the paper. “Don’t tell me there’s a pebble stuck in the sole again.”

 

“No, no, not your shoes – it’s that.” Dean pointed at the paper, and Charlie looked at the front page.

 

“The diamond? ‘The Kobalt Nocturne’, it says.”

 

“Whatever it’s called!” Dean sat up in a rush, taking the paper from Charlie’s hands. “This rock. This was what... Oh my God. Oh, _shhhit_. That’s what he tried to give me last night—”

 

“What? Who?”

 

**_IS THIS THE PAPER JAYBIRD’S FINAL SCORE?_ **

——

**_Inspector Switched Out Thief’s Target For Fake_ **

 

In a cold sweat, Dean breezed past the headlines and skipped to the article, his eyes jumping ahead to find the most important segment.

 

_Inspector J. Novak, the investigator assigned to previous cases, firmly believes this heist to be the work of the infamous jewel thief known as the Paper Jaybird. “This has all the hallmarks of the Jaybird’s usual larceny,” Novak says. “The thief entered without the knowledge of the guards on duty, removed the diamond, and exited without leaving behind a shred of workable evidence to connect him or her to the crime.”_

_Of course, something was indeed left behind: a section of a newspaper article cut into the shape of a bird’s feather, presenting a note of thanks. “He acts as though we’ve done him a favour, but he couldn’t be more wrong. This is the fifth time this calendar year we’ve been faced with a crime like this in New York City. This time we were a step ahead: we put measures in place to prevent the Jaybird from fencing (selling) this particular diamond.”_

_What are these measures? “We know the type of jewels the Jaybird likes: belonging to somebody rich, left unattended – among other qualifiers, such as being dangerous to obtain. We found a likely target in the Kobalt Nocturne. We made the diamond seem more desirable and more challenging to steal, then switched it for a phony. The Jaybird won’t be able to sell the fake._

_“Unfortunately we were unable to track the thief while the break-in was in progress. I cannot express how frustrated I am that the thief snuck past right under our noses, yet again.”_

_Further measures instigated by the local police include a future plan to audit jewellers in the city over the next few weeks, leaving the Paper Jaybird nowhere to turn._

 

“They’re going to flush him out,” Dean breathed, lowering the newspaper. “They’re gonna be waiting for him. Shit. If he tries to sell that fake, they’re gonna find him.”

 

“What’s the big deal?” Charlie asked, leaning forward, trying to see the photograph. “This bird’s been pinching shiny things from private safes and galleries and vaults ever since I can remember. Front page news every time.” Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “Wait... Dean! The Paper Jaybird! Is that...?”

 

Dean stared at the newspaper in his hands, shaking his head. “I... I— I gotta get home. I gotta get home. Charlie, I— I’m sorry, I gotta go. The shoe-shine is on me. I’ll see you later.” He stood up on shivering legs, sending a panicked look in Billie’s direction. Breathless, he turned for the door and took his cap from the hat stand, crammed it on his head, and took off down the alleyway, rolled-up newspaper clutched in his fist.

 

«··· ✧✦✧ ···»

 

Dean burst into his apartment, his face streaked with sweat, out of breath. He was all set to rush to the window and knock on Castiel’s glass until his knuckles bled, but instead he halted where he stood.

 

At the dining table, Castiel stood before an open tool case, which appeared to be full of paint. Dean saw paintbrushes and pots and sponges and all sorts of muddy brown colours. Castiel was wearing one of Dean’s shirts, tucked into Castiel’s own black slacks.

 

“What,” Dean huffed, “are you – doing here?”

 

Castiel’s mouth slid open, while he slowly closed the case until it clicked shut. “I— I stayed for breakfast. You’d best keep quiet, Sam’s asleep.” He frowned. “What are you doing home so early? It’s only been three hours.”

 

Dean wandered into the room on unsure feet, allowing the door to swing closed behind him. He tossed the newspaper onto the table, where it unfurled to reveal the front page.

 

“Ah,” Castiel said. “I see.”

 

Dean’s eyeline drifted a few inches across, and he saw the same photograph of the Kobalt Nocturne on the front page of a different newspaper. He bent to look at it: it was also dated today, but the headline and article was different.

 

“Well, the jig is up, I suppose,” Castiel said quietly. Dean looked his way, and saw Castiel opening up the case of paint again, not a twitch of distress in his expression. “You have some formal clothes in your wardrobe, don’t you? A black suit?”

 

Dean was still trying to catch his breath, and coherent thoughts seemed even more elusive than oxygen. “What?”

 

Castiel glanced up, forehead wrinkling, then he looked back down and picked out a pot of peachy-coloured paint, swirling it with a wooden brush. “Sam’s taking a nap before we leave. Since you’re here you may as well... ‘tag along’. I have some business to attend to.”

 

“Cas, I... I came to tell you,” Dean panted, wiping sweat from his face with the inner corner of his elbow, where his shirtsleeves were rolled up thickest. “The diamond. It’s fake. And that’s not even what—! You’re a thief. The Paper Jaybird, it’s you. All the gems... Cas... I thought you were...” Words failed Dean, and he could only glare at Castiel in dismay. “How could you lie to me, Cas?!”

 

“I did nothing of the sort,” Castiel said calmly, walking up to Dean and dabbing a dot of paint onto his face, unsolicited. He stopped trying when Dean shoved the paint pot away. “Dean, I offered to tell you so many times. Would you like to hear the truth, I asked. Where I go all day, what I do. What my job is. Where the tie pin came from. I asked if you wanted to know. But did you _want_ the truth, Dean? Did you? You tell me.”

 

Dean took one last gulp of air, and began to exhale, ever so slowly. “No,” he realised. He looked down, agitated.

 

“No,” Castiel repeated. “You only wanted something beautiful. Don’t you dare accuse me of lying. I’ve never lied to you, not once in our time together. I’ve done my best to offer hints. Jailbird. Jaybird. Remember?”

 

Dean trembled, reaching for a chair. He sat down hard, elbows on the table, head in his hands. Both newspapers were spread flat before him, filling his vision.

 

“Now, come here,” Castiel said. “I don’t need to disguise myself, but I won’t have you and Sam recognised later.”

 

“Why don’t you need a disguise?” Dean asked, leaning back and frowning as Castiel bent to smear cool, wet facepaint over his freckles. “Where are we going? What are we going to do?”

 

Castiel wore a mask of concentration, but it vanished for a moment as he met Dean’s eyes. “You’ll see,” Castiel said.

 

“You’re not the slightest bit worried, are you?” Dean said, awe in his voice.

 

“I’ve done this for years. It’s as routine for me as shining a shoe is for you,” Castiel answered.

 

“But the law’s onto you, Cas. Inspector Novak wants your freakin’ head on a platter. What are you gonna do about the fake diamond?”

 

Castiel snuffled a laugh. “Fake! Please.”

 

That was all he said.

 

Dean spent a few minutes lost in a peculiar daze, his mind a muddle of chaos with the occasional flash of clarity whenever his eyes focused. Castiel painted his face gently, fingers tipping Dean’s chin every so often. They didn’t speak. Dean didn’t think he would get answers just yet – and besides, it was loud enough in his head that he didn’t need Castiel’s voice in there too, adding to the fray.

 

Yet, the longer Castiel painted, the quieter Dean’s thoughts became. Eventually his body began to drain of adrenaline, and he slowly shut his eyes. Castiel took the opportunity to dust some powder onto Dean’s eye sockets, so lightly that he barely felt it.

 

When Castiel was done dabbing at Dean with sponges and brush tips, he fetched Dean a glass of fresh water and told him to get dressed. Dean drank his much-needed water, then went to put on his black suit, which he’d last worn to the funeral of a distant acquaintance, some years previously. If Dean hadn’t been the sort of man to keep flattering clothes, he would’ve sold this suit long ago.

 

When Dean emerged from his bedroom, he felt sparkling, all dressed up in his favourite black dress shoes, and he swaggered forward in straight-pressed pants. His shirt cuffs were decorated with neat silver links, while his torso was highlighted by a slim-fitting pewter-grey waistcoat, all topped off with a black blazer. Castiel smiled, and brought over Dean’s fedora, putting it angled upon his head.

 

“Boy,” Dean sighed, “I never felt more like Bulldog Drummond in my life.”

 

“Who?”

 

Dean grinned, shaking his head. “Remind me to take you out to the movies sometime. There’s a whole world of motion pictures and movie stars you’re missin’, babe.”

 

Castiel looked positively tickled to be addressed as ‘babe’. Dean grinned, leaning in to kiss his lips, but Castiel drew back. “Nn-nn. Don’t,” Castiel warned. “I’ll smear your makeup.”

 

Dean blinked. “How much did you put on me?”

 

“Take a look in the mirror, won’t you?”

 

Dean headed into the bathroom, baffled as to what he was about to see. He peered into the mirror, and— “Wow!” he shouted. “Cas, I look like someone else’s old man! Who even is that?” Grinning hugely, Dean eased himself right up to the shaving mirror, turning his face, wide-eyed at the sight of his new cheekbones. He looked slimmer than he really was, with a finer jaw, higher cheeks, deeper-set eyes, and about fifteen fewer hours of sleep. His freckles were gone, replaced with an odd, crooked scar across the bridge of his nose.

 

Castiel’s form appeared in the reflection beside Dean. “I thought the scar might add a little something. That way if someone gives your description to a sketch artist, they’ll describe that feature rather than your real ones. No, no, don’t worry – you won’t be getting in trouble. I’d never let that happen.”

 

“Damn,” Dean uttered, in lieu of a more intelligent thing to say. “So,” he added, leaning back, feeling light on his feet, “who am I meant to be?”

 

“Detective Dwight Wagner,” Castiel said, handing Dean a suspiciously genuine-looking copper’s badge. “Fourth-in-command on the Paper Jaybird case. You don’t need to speak, mostly stand at my side.”

 

“Why aren’t I second-in-command?” Dean asked.

 

“That role has already been filled by someone from the police department. A Lieutenant.”

 

A shuffle of clothing announced Sam’s appearance, and Dean looked up to see his brother leaning on the bathroom door jamb, bed-rumpled and bleary-eyed.

 

“I take it I’m third-in-command,” Sam murmured, rubbing his eyes.

 

“Detective Saul Roberts,” Castiel said, digging out another badge and passing it to Sam. “Wash your face then go and sit in the other room, I have some disguising to do.” He paused and exhaled, gazing objectively at Sam’s face. “Your long hair... really isn’t ideal.”

 

“I’m not cutting it,” Sam said, before Dean dared open his mouth. Sam settled Dean with a glare, knowing exactly what he was aching to suggest.

 

Castiel smiled, looking between them, a fond smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “In all honesty, Dean... Sam. I thought you’d both take the truth a lot harder than you have. Finding out your next-door neighbour is a jewel thief would rather knock the socks off most people, I’d imagine.”

 

Dean smirked, fiddling with his new badge. “Well,” he shrugged. “We’re accepting guys.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam said. His eyes jumped to Dean as he spoke, then away again. Dean wasn’t sure what the glance meant, but it definitely meant something.

 

“Now, then,” Castiel said, noticing but swiftly ignoring Sam and Dean’s silent communication, “once we’re all ready, I think we might actually have some fun with this.” He checked a wristwatch, one Dean had never seen him wear before. “Oh dear,” he uttered. “It’s almost ten a.m. – Sam, get dressed quickly. We have a number of taxicabs to catch.”

  
«··· ✧✦✧ ···»


	8. Jewel Trader

Dean had ridden in a taxicab a few times before. Fifteen cents for the first mile, five cents for each additional mile – those prices were steep for a shoe-shiner. A whole day’s pay could disappear very quickly indeed. But Castiel was paying, and what a good thing he was too, since they changed taxis twice and doubled back on their own route in order to make sure the cab drivers wouldn’t know where in the city they came from.

 

Well, that was what Dean could assume, anyway. He dared not speak and ask questions throughout the journey; he sat and fiddled with his tie pin, straightened his pants, adjusted his hat. He watched the view out of the window, paying attention to the beautiful sound and feel of an engine, and the vibration in the leather seats under his thighs.

 

In the middle seat, crammed between Dean and Sam, Castiel pulled out a set of documents from the breast pocket of his trenchcoat. He skimmed through them, flipping between pages. There was some sort of official-looking wax seal on every leaf.

 

“What are those?” Sam asked.

 

“All in good time,” Castiel replied, keeping his voice low.

 

“Wouldn’t this be safer if we knew the plan?” Sam said. Dean said nothing, but he agreed.

 

Castiel shook his head. “The less you know, the safer you’ll be. And by that I mean you won’t argue with me beforehand. We can talk freely once we’re back home.”

 

Dean clenched his fist around the hem of his waistcoat, tugging it down. God, he was nervous. He stared out of the window, watching as the buildings gradually become cleaner and shinier. They were in the rich man’s part of the city now.

 

Castiel paid for the taxi once they reached their destination. Dean, Castiel, and Sam emerged from the car onto a pleasantly plain sidewalk with beige slab paving underfoot, and pastel-coloured marble forming the outer walls of every high-rise building around them.

 

“Follow me,” Castiel said. He carried a locked briefcase in his right hand, and led the brothers a minute’s walk down the street. People in snappy suits and jazzy dresses travelled both ways around them, most absorbed in friendly conversation, others in a hurry to get somewhere.

 

“Try not to talk,” Castiel reminded the brothers, speaking over his shoulder. “If you must speak, don’t forget that you’re officers of the law, upper-middle class, employed under my command.”

 

Dean and Sam shot each other a glance. What the hell had they agreed to, here?

 

The three men paused as Castiel paused first: they were outside a jeweller. The sign overhead read _Empire State | Fine_ _Jewels & Trading_.

 

“Oh, I ought to warn you,” Castiel said, reaching to straighten Dean’s tie pin, almost absent-mindedly, “You’re about to meet someone named Kevin Tran.” Castiel looked into Dean’s eyes. “He’s a friend. Just... don’t stare. Not that I think you would. I just want to be sure.”

 

“All right?” Dean said, frowning in confusion. Castiel nodded.

 

“And one last thing.” Castiel raised his eyebrows, straightening up, now eyeing Dean with a cooler, more distant expression. “You are to refer to me as Inspector Novak, you understand?”

 

Dean’s skin chilled. “Novak,” he repeated quietly.

 

“Oh, how fantastic! Your ears are working, Wagner,” Castiel remarked with notable disdain. “Roberts, if you could please open the door.” He gestured for Sam to go first. When Sam didn’t move, Castiel snapped his fingers and tutted, “Quickly, Roberts, I don’t have all day!”

 

Sam hastily did as he was told, unable to take his eyes off Castiel, suddenly estranged. Castiel strode through the door without a breath of thanks.

 

With one last cautious glance exchanged between Dean and Sam, they followed Castiel into the jewellery store.

 

At once Dean felt belittled by powerfully blue walls, which were decorated on every side with all the expected trappings of a high-class jeweller’s: gold-edged glass cases filled with rubies and sapphires and emeralds, necklaces on stands and bracelets on velvet cushions. The whole place smelled of incense, and boy, was it _warm_. Dean took his fedora off and began fanning his face with it, concerned his makeup might start to run.

 

“Kevin,” Castiel called to the empty shop. A glass counter was set up at the end, supporting a cash register, and underneath displaying what looked very much like a set of opium pipes. Dean flushed with a wave of heat, wondering what new dimension he’d stepped into. Was this really where Castiel spent his time?

 

A bustling sound came from a door at the back of the shop. A hand whipped away a bead curtain, and out came a curious black-haired boy, eighteen or nineteen years old. Dean now realised why Castiel had told them not to stare. Kevin was Chinese. Dean had never seen a Chinese person outside of Chinatown, and he knew first-hand how a fish out of water tended to draw people’s attention. In Dean’s experience, the attention was never positive.

 

“Good morning, Inspector,” Kevin said.

 

“Good morning, Kevin.” Castiel gestured to Sam, on his left. “May I introduce you to my associates, Detective Saul Roberts—” Sam showed Kevin his copper’s badge, making Castiel smile, “and Dwight Wagner.” Dean fumbled, but he held up his badge too, standing straight-backed.

 

Castiel gazed at Kevin and continued, “They’re helping me out today; we have official police business to discuss. I’ll get to that in a moment. First I have to mention – did you see the newspapers this morning?” Castiel now had a friendly grin on his face, leaning a forearm on the counter. Dean had never seen him grin like that. It wasn’t awkward at all. Yet, somehow, it didn’t seem genuine to Dean.

 

“You mean, did I see all those articles about the Kobalt Nocturne? Oh, yeah,” Kevin grinned back at Castiel. Dean couldn’t help feeling further surprise: Kevin spoke in an elegant New York accent. “I showed my mom. I woke her up, shouting – Mom, Mom, look! Inspector Jimmy Novak is on the front page! He’s hot on the trail of the Paper Jaybird! She loves following those cases. Your name was on every major newspaper in the city this morning, I’m guessing you saw too. Yeah. My mom can’t wait until the Jaybird is under glass – she’s always terrified the thief’s going to loot this place.”

 

Castiel laughed in a humble way, head down. “No, no. I know how the Jaybird thinks. He wouldn’t target a family like yours; you’ve worked incredibly hard for what you have. He prefers, shall we say, the idle rich. Those who had wealth handed to them at birth, and whose wealth keeps on coming. His marks never miss what’s stolen; it’s mostly their pride that’s wounded.”

 

“That’s exactly what I told her, Inspector,” Kevin said. “You know your target inside out, and you never hold back when you talk to the press. I keep thinking you should write a book on how the Paper Jaybird steals his jewels. My mom would buy it. It would be a bestseller, I’d bet good money on it.”

 

“That’s a nice idea,” Castiel sighed, putting his briefcase onto the counter with a distracted huff, “Alas, it would be a dissatisfying book: I’ve never caught the Jaybird in the act. The best I’ve managed to do is pick up the pieces once the thief and the jewels are long gone. It’s just me, standing on a sidewalk at one in the morning, swamped by reporters and police car sirens.” He shook his head. “Those reporters! My God. Last night I had twenty notebooks pushed in my face, and they all wanted dirt. Lieutenant Fitzgerald and his fellows had to herd them all away and bring them back in small groups before I could get a word in edgeways.”

 

Dean’s mind raced, struggling to place which of Castiel’s words were fact, and which were fiction. Who could ever have guessed he was such a great actor? Dean barely recognised the man before him. Dean had never seen a photograph of Inspector Novak, but he’d read his words, and Castiel’s speech matched the personality from the newspapers. With a spiel like this, Castiel might well fool God Himself that he was the real Inspector Novak.

 

Kevin leaned onto the counter eagerly. “You seemed so sure in the articles, but are you really going to catch the Paper Jaybird this time? It’s just that – pardon me for saying it, sir – he’s outwitted you so many times...”

 

“I can assure you, Kevin, for once, the Jaybird is going to be sorely disappointed,” Castiel said, patting both hands on the briefcase. “Now, I have here—”

 

“The real one?” Kevin’s eyes lit up. “You want me and my mom to take the Kobalt Nocturne for safekeeping?!”

 

Castiel laughed in a hum, and Dean and Sam shared a smile too. Kevin was certainly likable, the same way a puppy was likeable.

 

“Safekeeping... Well, not quite,” Castiel admitted. “But you’re not far off.” He thumbed at the two locks on the briefcase, finding their combination. The case clicked open, and Castiel turned it sideways and opened it wide, revealing a big empty space. Empty, save for a bundle of cloth.

 

“Go ahead, unwrap it,” Castiel encouraged.

 

Kevin grabbed the cloth wad and undid the string around it, then let the cloth fall away. He gasped, gazing at the gem in his hands. “It’s even more beautiful than I remember,” he said, disbelieving. “Good cut, amazing clarity – oh, that distortion! – perfect sky blue. But I’d forgotten just how shiny it is.”

 

“Well, you’d best memorise the sight, then,” Castiel said, taking out the papers from his coat pocket, “because what I’m here to do is sell it to you for dissolution. Under state law, you are being ordered to take the gem apart.”

 

Kevin stared at Castiel. Sam and Dean also stared at Castiel.

 

“That is to say,” Castiel smiled, “you are about to receive the financial reward the Jaybird hoped he or she would get. Well – the excess, at least. Obviously you’d sell the jewel for more than you buy it for. That’s your reward.”

 

“Sir,” Kevin said, breathless.

 

“Go on, take it, read this,” Castiel said, easing the paper documents over to Kevin. “Everyone in the police headquarters wants this diamond well out of the reaches of the Paper Jaybird. And if it’s sliced up into a handful of smaller gems, there’s no pull to it any more, at least not to a jewel thief like the Jaybird. You understand. The documents are all signed by the commissioner. Judge Bobby Singer stamped them himself.”

 

Dean’s eyes darted to Sam. Sam’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. Neither brother had expected Sam’s boss, his professional mentor, and the man who was somewhat of a vague father figure to both Winchesters to have had a hand in this. Bobby Singer ran the straight-and-narrow, there was no way in hell he was corrupt.

 

Shock quickly led Dean to another realisation: so long as old Uncle Bobby wasn’t skimming the profits somehow, that meant Castiel was doing the unthinkable. He was fencing a diamond _through legal channels_. Either that, or Bobby’s signature had been expertly forged. Dean was flabbergasted, though he resolved not to show it. He had so many questions, and he couldn’t wait to get home so he could probe Castiel for answers. The most pressing question of all: how the devil had Castiel Hartley, the Paper Jaybird himself, come to be known as Inspector Jimmy Novak? He was a criminal posing as his own pursuer. He was the _hunter_ as well as the _hunted_ , and Dean’s mind was thoroughly blown by the farce Castiel had evidently been self-narrating for years.

 

Kevin read the documents quickly, his mouth moving around silent words. The diamond was tucked between two fingers of his hand, and his thumb grazed the sharp facets, over and over in a repeating motion. When he reached the final page, he coughed in surprise.

 

“Ah, yes,” Castiel said with some disdain. “That one raised my eyebrows too.”

 

“What?” Dean said, unable to help himself. He cleared his throat, and spoke like Castiel: “Which page is that, might I ask?”

 

Castiel gave Dean a peculiar smile. “It’s the page signed by the woman who owned the diamond, one Lady Bentley. She seemed like a nice woman, she offered me cake and a drink. Ah, she—” Castiel bowed his head, frowning before he glanced back up and looked Dean in the eye. “After I talked to her, and explained my plan to use a replica to catch the Paper Jaybird, she all but _handed_ me the real diamond. Do with it what you will, she said, on the condition that the Paper Jaybird never, ever gets his hands on it.”

 

Dean’s lips parted in awe, and a tiny smile flickered there: somehow, Castiel had manipulated and outwitted everyone involved.

 

“She was quite vocal, in fact,” Castiel went on, looking away, watching Kevin test the diamond to double-check it was genuine. “The Paper Jaybird has made a name for himself – herself, perhaps – in underground circles, donating the money from the stolen items to the underprivileged. He’s known as somewhat of a humanitarian among visitors to soup kitchens and homeless shelters, though his face is always unseen. Lady Bentley evidently heard tell of such activities, as she was vehement in suggesting she does not want, under any circumstances, the sale of her diamond to fund a lesser people. She gave me full legal ownership of the diamond in exchange for keeping it away from _them_.”

 

“Lesser people,” Dean started. “As in—”

 

“As in the working class, the unemployed, negroes, the Chinese, and immigrants, yes,” Castiel said. “I’ve met plenty of racialists in my time as a private detective, but Lady Bentley was certainly one of the kinder ones. That’s not to say she ought to be listened to.” Castiel gave Dean a distinctive look, one that made sure Dean understood exactly how much he disagreed with ‘racialism’. It was unwarranted prejudice, fair and square.

 

Kevin cleared his throat, looking from Dean to Castiel, then back again. Castiel inhaled and dragged his eyes back to the gem.

 

“You’re breaking your contract to Lady Bentley by coming here, sir,” Kevin said warily. “I’m exactly the kind of person she’d hate.”

 

Castiel tutted. “You’re a trustworthy young man, Kevin. If you won’t tell, I won’t tell.” He winked.

 

Kevin stared, but slowly he began to smile. “You have my word, Inspector. I won’t tell a soul you were here. Except my mom, obviously.” With flushed cheeks, he looked down and waved the gem. “This is the real Kobalt Nocturne, all right,” he said with a grin. “I can offer you a cash payment up-front, if you want...?”

 

“That would be very helpful, thank you,” Castiel said, pulling out a notebook and a pencil. He did a quick sum, then paused. “Three thousand, two hundred, that was what you said last time—?”

 

“Approximately, yeah,” Kevin agreed. “Although, now blue diamonds are front page news again, any necklaces I made out of this are going to be _Paper Jaybird_ -inspired necklaces. They’ll be numbered, one-of-a-kind pieces, and they’ll practically fly out the door. Sensationalism sells; always has. That Paper Jaybird, he’s as bad as they come, but I gotta say, his meddling will make it a heck of a lot easier to sell these. I can maybe offer you three thousand, five hundred.”

 

Castiel chuckled, a grin spreading across his face. “Usually when buyers haggle, they tend to go lower.”

 

“You’ve done a great service to our business, Inspector,” Kevin said. “Not least because you chose to come here to get your fake diamond made. Then you came back to sell us the real one. Loyalty pays, sir. Thank you.”

 

Castiel tried to hide his smile; he wasn’t the prideful sort, at least not in an obvious way. “You’re welcome, Kevin,” he said quietly. “Good service breeds loyalty, that’s all. I’ll accept your offer.”

 

“Three thousand, five hundred dollars, coming right up,” Kevin said. He turned and left through the back door, presumably going to unlock a safe somewhere.

 

“I can’t believe all that money could be kept in one place,” Dean said quietly.

 

“Oh, they have huge reserves,” Sam said, like he knew everything about jewellers. “Shops like this, on this side of town? They’d have far more than that in the back.”

 

“Kevin makes jewellery that sells for up to ten thousand dollars,” Castiel said with a nod. “Diamonds really aren’t worth that much in comparison to, say, pearls, or rubies.”

 

“Not much?” Dean scoffed. “Three-and-a-half grand, _Inspector_ – that sounds like a hell of a lot to me.”

 

“Well... yes,” Castiel said, smiling. “Now be quiet, Wagner; we’ll talk after.”

 

A silent minute passed. It didn’t seem sensible to break character now, so Dean entertained himself, pretending to be Detective Dwight Wagner. He strolled around the shop, hands clasped neatly behind his back to hold the brim of his hat, chin high. He pored over the gems in the cabinets, casting his eyes about discerningly, as though he saw exhibitions this marvellous every other day. He caught sight of his face in the glass a few times, startling himself when he realised the reflection he’d aligned to a glitzy pair of earrings was not a reflection of his own familiar face, but that of Dwight Wagner. He fanned himself with his hat and moved on.

 

On his way back to Kevin’s counter, Dean eased past Sam, who was eyeing up a sword with its handle encrusted with jewels.

 

Dean came up to Castiel’s side again, admiring the broad frame which filled out his tan-coloured trenchcoat most attractively. It seemed incredible that this was the man Dean had fallen in love with, who was the same man to make front-page news every few months for the past five years, and nobody had realised that the Inspector who gave every interview in the aftermath of every theft was being flawlessly impersonated by the very same man who stole the jewels to begin with. Castiel was so many things at once that Dean wondered if he was a little wrong in the head. Or, to be fair, very right in the head. Nobody ought to be so fantastic, and then be such a fine trumpet player to boot. Did the man even _have_ a flaw?

 

Of course he did, Dean thought, not long after. Castiel had one fatal, fatal flaw, and that was that he loved Dean. That sort of thing was what ruined extraordinary men like Castiel: falling in love with a nobody.

 

Kevin returned, carrying over three thousand dollars, collected into one slim stack of paper money. Dean’s heart leapt into his throat at the sight. He’d never seen that many Franklins in all his days on Earth.

 

Castiel spent some time counting it out, making sure the stack contained precisely thirty-five hundred-dollar bills.

 

“Exactly right,” Castiel said, holding out his hand to shake Kevin’s. “Let’s sign each other’s documents, and then my posse and I will get out of your way.”

 

Kevin gave Castiel a page to sign, and Castiel read it and signed it, then handed the same blue pen to Kevin for him to sign all the others.

 

“Perfect,” Castiel said, taking back his pen, tucking it into his breast pocket. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Tran. I dare say, should an unlikely thing happen and the Paper Jaybird slips through my fingers again, you’ll be my first port of call for assistance.”

 

“Thank you, Inspector. I’ll tell my mom you said hello.”

 

“Would you, that’s very kind. Have yourself a lovely afternoon, Kevin.”

 

Kevin waved, and Castiel smiled as he took his briefcase full of money and his documents, turning to leave. Dean went after Sam, indulging in one last look around the shop, soaking up the sights.

 

On the way to the door, Dean’s attention caught on something unexpectedly, and his step faltered. “Ca— Inspector. Detective Saul, would you wait a moment...?”

 

Sam and Castiel stopped before they reached the exit. “What is it?” Sam asked, speaking in the same hoity-toity tone as Dean.

 

Dean licked his lips, lifting a finger to point at something he’d spotted. “I— I’m sorry, I just...”

 

Sam moved in close to see what Dean was so enraptured by. He laughed, and his long hair shook.

 

“If you were me, and you saw _that_ , you wouldn’t walk right past,” Dean said, shoving Sam in the shoulder. “Look at it. It’s like the royal version of the deck I always use.”

 

“What are you looking at...?” Castiel pushed between the brothers, and immediately smiled when he saw the focus of Dean’s lust.

 

In one of the glass display cases, between a glittering emerald cigarette lighter and a wristwatch studded with crystals, a set of playing cards had been propped up in bed of blue velvet. A familiar fishy face emblazoned the cardstock, but every artful line reflected gold instead of common red ink.

 

“Thirty dollars,” Kevin said, appearing beside the trio. “Every card has the same twenty-four karat gold ink printed onto the back. Brand new, unused, and rare. The fish symbolises affluence and wealth in my culture – which is extremely good luck. This pack _was_ forty dollars, but I’ll knock some off for a friend of Inspector Novak.”

 

“Would you?” Dean felt apprehension and desire mixing drinks in his stomach, and he glanced nervously at Sam. Thirty dollars was near-equivalent to a month’s rent. But now he’d spoken aloud, backing out now would only rupture the image of prim, dandy Dwight Wagner that Dean had established. How was he to say he didn’t have the money? He dared not ask Castiel for some cash out of the briefcase – personal ventures could not overlap with what Kevin saw as official police business. Dean had to pay out of pocket.

 

Dean thought fast, and his eyes dropped to the tie pin holding his necktie in place. “W— You wouldn’t say no to a trade, would you, old sport?” Dean looked down at Kevin, making quick work of undoing the tie pin. “White sapphires, twenty-two karat gold.”

 

Kevin held out his hand to take the pin. “Hm. I’ll take a look.”

 

Dean followed at Kevin’s heels, but stopped when the boy went behind the counter. Kevin pulled out a set of loupes and flicked down the magnifiers over one eye, peering closely at the pin while Dean waited, anxiously tapping a finger on the glass counter.

 

Castiel floated up to Dean’s side, a proud smile curving his lips. “And there I thought you were going to hang on to that forever.”

 

“You’re not offended?”

 

Castiel shook his head. “I’d much rather my gift is exchanged for something you really want, rather than clung to for no reason other than sentiment.”

 

“I liked wearing it while it lasted,” Dean shrugged. “But, uh. In a job like ours, Inspector, there are just too many crooks waiting to get their hands on a shiny orchid or two. A ritzy thing like this is bound to get stolen eventually. Wouldn’t you say?”

 

“I would say,” Castiel agreed. He seemed quietly amused at Dean’s attempts to speak like him; a laugh shone in his eyes. “I wouldn’t say it like _that_ , perhaps. But you’re not wrong.”

 

“How much is it worth?” Sam asked Kevin, pushing gently against Dean’s back to make him move over.

 

Kevin was just finishing up the same scratch test Charlie had done the previous week. “Around here, three hundred and fifty, give or take. It’s second hand, and the gold’s been dented a bit. These things don’t hold their value like diamonds do, and yellow gold is out of fashion now. But if you took it to auction and sold it to a collector, you might get, ooh... four hundred? At the most.”

 

“Four hundred,” Dean whispered. He flapped his hat at his face.

 

“But if you want to take that pack of cards home with you, Detective, you’re better off accepting three-fifty now,” Kevin warned. “That brand is mighty popular, and a pack like that, one that stands out, it’ll be gone by the end of the week. I’ve had plenty of folks taking a serious interest since I put it there yesterday.”

 

Dean fanned his hat faster, shooting a glance Sam’s way. Dean had never been reckless with his money, he’d never splashed out, not ever. What kind of man was he becoming? All the money that had moved passed his eyes today must’ve gone to his head.

 

“Take the offer, Dwight,” Sam said, rolling his eyes away. “God knows you’ll grouse at me for years to come if you don’t.”

 

Dean breathed out with a grin. Sam was right. “I’ll take it. Give me three-fifty for the pin, and I’ll take the playing cards for thirty.”

 

Kevin nodded, and left the room again.

 

Dean stared at the decorations on the back wall, fanning his face and trying to breathe slow. “The hell’s wrong with me?” he huffed, shaking his head. “Didn’t even haggle. Nearly a fifty-dollar loss over a freakin’ thirty-dollar set of playing cards. What the devil am I doing?”

 

“I believe you’re finally coming into your own,” Castiel said, setting a reassuring hand on Dean’s shirt sleeve. “Addressing your own needs and wants before those of others.”

 

“That’s not a good thing!” Dean hissed, feeling sweat beading on his forehead. “I’m losing my mind in here, it’s too damn hot!”

 

“Sh-sh,” Castiel hushed, just as Kevin reappeared in the doorway, flicking back the bead curtain.

 

Kevin offered Dean a short stack of twenty-dollar bills. Sam counted them, as Dean was too busy gripping Castiel’s shoulder and surreptitiously gasping for air.

 

“We’re almost done, Dwight,” Castiel said gently.

 

“I’mma pass out,” Dean slurred.

 

“One minute,” Castiel assured him. “Hold on.”

 

Kevin went to get the playing cards, using a key to unlock the glass cabinet. He handed the pack straight to Sam, who stared at Dean in concern before putting the cards into his own pocket.

 

“Thank you, Kevin,” Castiel said. “I think we’d better get Dwight some fresh air...”

 

“Come again soon,” Kevin called after them, his voice quiet against the infernal roar of blood in Dean’s ears. Dean let Castiel take him around the waist and guide him to the door.

 

They emerged on that pleasantly bright street, where a small tree grew within a circular railing, and a glorious blue sky lifted the sense of impending doom that had been closing in over Dean’s head. It was not much cooler outside, but it was peaceful.

 

“Are you all right now?” Castiel asked, holding Dean’s shoulders from in front.

 

Dean blinked a few times. “I... Ah.” He gulped, then heaved a great big sigh, finally feeling his nausea settle. “I’m havin’ a weird fuckin’ day, Cas. Other than that? Yeah.” He patted Castiel’s chest. “Yeah, I’m plenty fine, jaybird. Just peachy.”

 

Sam wheezed a quiet laugh, on the edge of hysterical. Clearly, he could relate.

 

“Come on, then,” Castiel smiled, helping Dean stand straight, making sure he didn’t fall over. “Let’s hail a taxi and get back home.”

  
«··· ✧✦✧ ···»


	9. Castiel Hartley Reveals His Best Trick

As soon as Dean got through the front door, he headed for the bathroom. After relieving himself, he stood at the washbasin and splashed water onto his face, staring at his own reflection in the angled shaving mirror. He watched the makeup finally melt and crumble, as it had been trying to do since Castiel put it on. Summer heat was far from kind.

 

Head bent, Dean finished washing up, eyes closed and stinging. He breathed deeply once he was clean. His head was full of thoughts and questions again, buzzing loud.

 

“Dean? Are you all right?” came an inquisitive voice.

 

Dean glanced up, face dripping. In the mirror he saw Castiel standing in the doorway, folding his trenchcoat over an arm, hanging back like he wasn’t sure if he should approach.

 

Dean grinned, grabbing the hand towel from beside the basin, dragging it down his face and under his chin. “Oh, yeah,” he said gruffly, exhaling. “C’mere.”

 

Castiel inched forward hesitantly, but in one bold move, Dean whipped the towel around the back of his neck, grabbing the end and drawing Castiel close.

 

“Oh,” Castiel said, as Dean pushed him up against the wall.

 

Dean grinned devilishly, pushing his nose into Castiel’s cheek, kissing him hard. He forced Castiel’s mouth open, sighing softly over his lips and onto his tongue. Castiel made a quiet sound of unexpected pleasure, and Dean responded in kind, letting go of a throaty moan, pressing his hips into Castiel’s. Dean’s hands filled themselves with Castiel’s hair, rumpling it, gripping it while he teased their lips with kisses.

 

“I—” Castiel gasped, smiling against Dean’s next kiss. “You were so quiet on the drive home— I wasn’t expecting... I thought...”

 

Dean snickered, nosing at Castiel’s upper lip. “Ha,” he breathed, smooching once more. Dean’s eyelashes flicked against Castiel’s cheek, then he looked up into Castiel’s eyes. “That,” Dean said, “was the most fun I ever had. Watching you work, Cas... It’s a _thrill_. You’re a complicated man, jaybird.”

 

Castiel grinned halfway, as puzzled as he was flattered.

 

Dean kissed him again. “Mm. God, I love bad men.”

 

“I thought I was a good man,” Castiel said, frowning.

 

Dean chuckled, pecking a kiss to Castiel’s nose. “You’re bad in the best way. It’s kinda _hot_.”

 

A knock sounded from the half-closed bathroom door. “Are you both in there?” Sam asked. “Can I use the bathroom? I need to get this stuff off my face, I feel like I’m melting.”

 

Dean had backed away from Castiel the second he heard Sam approach, and now he put on a careless smile and opened the bathroom door wide, grinning as if the mere idea of necking with Castiel had never once crossed his mind. “All yours, Sammy.” Dean clapped his brother on the back as he strode past.

 

Castiel followed, head down, shifty-eyed. He dared not look at Sam as he passed by.

 

Dean reached the main room of the apartment, and he ran his hand over his mouth, then turned to see Castiel hanging his coat over the back of a chair. Castiel’s previously-tidy hair was a wreck, and his mouth was pink all around his lips. In a slight panic, Dean realised he’d nearly kissed Castiel raw. Sam must’ve noticed. He _must_ have.

 

Castiel caught Dean’s gaze. “We need to be more careful, Dean,” he warned quietly, pushing his hair back, casting wary eyes towards the closed bathroom door. “Sam excused us sleeping together like it was normal, but if he walks in on us one more time—”

 

“I get it, I get it,” Dean said hastily, cutting Castiel off with a wave. “I’ve hidden relationships before, I know the drill.”

 

Castiel pressed his lips together and lowered his eyes. “Relationships,” he repeated, a quick smirk fluttering on his face.

 

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Is that not what this is?”

 

“Oh – yes.” Castiel met his eye. “I just hadn’t thought of us like that until now.”

 

Dean smiled, pulling up a dining chair, sitting in it backwards with his arms folded over the back rest, chin down on his wrists. He kept smiling, unable to stop.

 

When Sam emerged from the bathroom, he was shiny with water. “Anyone seen the towel?” he asked, before spotting it over Castiel’s shoulders.

 

In a fluster, Castiel handed over the towel. Again, he kept his eyes lowered. Dean observed the way Sam scrutinised their neighbour while drying his cheeks and hands. Sam seemed intrigued, thoughtful – and worst of all, suspicious.

 

Gulping hard, Dean stared at the floorboards and spoke to break the silence. “So!”

 

“So,” Sam replied. He slung the towel back over one shoulder and it whipped his back. “Inspector Jimmy Novak, huh? How long have you had that alias? Seems like quite a feat, making everyone believe you’re the real Novak.”

 

“Jimmy Novak,” Castiel echoed, in a fond, smiling kind of way. His eyes moved to Dean, and with great sincerity, he confessed, “There’s no alias. I’m not impersonating anyone. I _am_ Inspector Novak. James Novak is my real name.”

 

Dean sat up straight, lips parting.

 

“But,” Castiel went on, taking a chair and pulling himself up to the end of the table, “Castiel Hartley is also my real name.”

 

“How can you be both people at once?” Dean asked. “That makes no sense.”

 

“I was born James C. Novak. Castiel is my middle name.” Castiel rolled a shoulder. “My father... He, um. He abandoned us, abandoned my mother, back when I was young. The terms of their separation left something to be desired. After then I went by my mother’s maiden name, Hartley, so she’d never have to hear the name Novak again. But it’s only colloquial, around family.”

 

Dean smiled, eyes turning towards Sam. By introducing himself as Castiel Hartley, Castiel had chosen the brothers as family.

 

Castiel went on, “To the rest of the world, I’m James Novak. Jimmy, to my workmates and to the press. I like to keep up a good rapport with that crowd, it makes things easier.”

 

“You work for the police,” Sam said, taking the third of the four chairs. He sat five feet away from Dean, forearms weighed on his thighs, also facing Castiel.

 

“I work _with_ the police, not for them,” Castiel said. “I’m a soldier,” he added. He smiled when he said that, but Dean knew his friend’s face well enough to recognise a hurt smile, the sort that was there only to impress people. “I’ve been a warrior since the Great War; the mindset never let up. When I returned to America I... I wandered, unemployed for a few months. Homeless. I was getting every meal from soup kitchens, living in shelters. Deprived people became my family, but they were also my competition. There was never enough to go around.”

 

Sam and Dean locked eyes and shared a grim smile; all three of them knew that life well.

 

“Eventually,” Castiel sighed, “I found a job working alongside the police, as a private investigator. They had me take charge on certain cases, and they paid me. They trust me. I’ve commanded an army and led my men to victory in the war; of course they trust me.” He shook his head. “They trust the badge and the smile. They knew nothing about me then, and they know nothing now.”

 

Castiel swallowed, thinking about his words. He finally stood up, angling his chair so he properly faced the brothers. He sat down again, hands on his knees, shoulders pushed up to his ears. “I once worked multiple cases. Jewel theft became my area of expertise. I assisted in the arrest of perhaps two dozen hard-to-track criminals in the three years after my employment began...” His eyes rose, locking onto Dean’s. “Five years ago, though... I don’t know.” He glanced away and shook his head. “Everything changed.”

 

“The Paper Jaybird,” Dean said. “Five years ago, that was when you started stealing.”

 

“Yes.” Castiel nodded. “It was about the money, obviously, but it was also about my own moral dilemmas. Arresting criminals wasn’t enough for me, it wasn’t right. The men and women I was sending to prison, they had familiar faces. Or at least, they had familiar stories. They were smart, and capable, but they were poor and hungry. Every time I handcuffed another, I felt the bite of metal around my own wrists. They... They were _me_. Me on another path, in another life.

 

“So,” he said, spreading his hands outward, “I did what I’d inadvertently learned how to do. It was all too easy, frankly. I took a jewel from police storage, one filed as evidence for an old case. I left behind a paper feather with an apology written on the back.”

 

“You said sorry?” Dean grinned.

 

“It felt wrong,” Castiel explained. “But, to be completely blunt, it also felt too straightforward. I’m much like you, Dean, I enjoy a little thrill.”

 

Dean blushed.

 

“I had to move my business elsewhere,” Castiel went on, blushing too, “and I knew I couldn’t let the police sniff me out right under their noses. So I stole another jewel, this time from an abusive aristocrat. I made sure people noticed, and I left a feather. I went to my superiors at the police headquarters, and I assigned myself to lead the hunt for the thief, who the press had already named ‘the Paper Jaybird’.

 

“I became... a character. A character in my own life, acting a part. Jimmy Novak became a personable but short-tempered man who other people saw to be obsessed with catching this one thief, a thief who outwits me – outwits _him_ – time and time again. Other jewel heists come and go, but I let other detectives take the work. I don’t want any part in that any more. I only work as a detective when the Jaybird surfaces again. That is to say, whenever I feel like it. But I receive a steady wage, under the pretence that I’m working constantly. I visit the police headquarters every so often with a new piece of evidence, hearsay of where the Jaybird is headed next, what he might steal.”

 

“It’s all made up,” Sam grinned, clearly impressed. “You control – everything! You can cover up anything, just by being the first man on the scene.”

 

“Working out complex strategies is a lot of fun,” Castiel smiled. “Everything you’ve ever read in the papers is a fantastic concoction of my own making. As Dean knows full well, when I get an idea in my head, oh, my imagination just takes over, and I’ll let it wander where it will. There are no locked-room mysteries. None of the sensational gossip that the press laps up is true. It’s only me, manipulating, pulling the strings. It’s about asking the right people the right questions. Playing the long game. And, of course,” he winked at Dean, “sleight-of-hand.”

 

“I thought you hated people,” Dean said, staring dazedly at Castiel, falling more in love by the minute. “I thought you’d rather starve to death in your ivory tower than dirty your shoes with everyone else’s mud.”

 

“While that’s true... there’s plenty to love about humanity,” Castiel said softly. “We’re animals, after all. And I don’t like to see any creature go hungry at the hands of another. I don’t hate people, Dean. I hate the part of human nature that wants to segregate and dominate by differences, claiming that one race is greater than another, or one sex, one class, or one frame of mind. I hate that there’s always a forgotten rock sitting in someone’s parlour that could save someone’s life, and no pearl-draped flapper and no dewdropper thinks to pass it on to someone who might need it. I know for a fact that if these people hear the right words, they give their superfluous luxuries up without a second thought. You’re right, Dean: I don’t love the social interaction. But I do love playing the game.”

 

Sam frowned, leaning forward. “This is all... great. But if Jimmy Novak can make rich people feel so important that they just _hand over_ their jewels, why do you need the Paper Jaybird at all?”

 

Dean scoffed. “The Jaybird is the threat,” he explained to his brother. “These monied dicks don’t give a fuck about the great unwashed, Sam. But, c’mon. Tell them a disreputable jewel thief is about to steal their crap, bet you anything they trip over their own Oxfords in their hurry to get front-page famed _Inspector Jimmy Novak_ to hide the thing. Right?” Dean looked hopefully at Castiel. “Inspector Novak’s a hero to the rich, the Paper Jaybird’s a hero to the poor. And through all that, Castiel-damn-Hartley is nowhere to be seen. He’s just sittin’ on his window ledge, blowing on his trumpet till the sun goes down.”

 

Castiel bowed his head, smiling.

 

Dean made a smug noise. “See.”

 

Sam huffed a small laugh, one side of his mouth tugging up to a point.

 

“There was this one time,” Castiel said, teeth showing in a sideways smile as he recalled a memory, “I faked a telephone call to the police, notifying them of a break-in. I, as Novak, arrived with the cavalry, only to find that the vault in question was still locked. The police ordered the vault to be opened, and inside, a single gemstone was still in place, untouched upon its velvet throne. Naturally, I ordered the gem to be tested, in case the thief had replaced it with a fake—”

 

“And you swapped it!” Dean felt his toes curling inside his shoes. “You got _them_ to open the vault. You crafty beggar, Cas.”

 

Castiel chuckled, humble and proud at once. “Yes, I swapped it. The jeweller deemed it a genuine – as it was – and I replaced it on its plinth. Sleight-of-hand... One twirl of my fingers, and the gem locked back up in the vault was nothing but a glass marble, and the real gem went home in my pocket.”

 

He gave a sudden start, blinking thrice. “Speaking of pockets...” He turned at the waist, taking his trenchcoat from the back of his chair, rummaging in one pocket, then another. “Aha.” He pulled out something shiny, which looked remarkably like the Kobalt Nocturne. “This is the replica the Paper Jaybird supposedly stole last night. I had it created for the express purpose of making it exist, then making it vanish. It has no use, now.” He tossed it to Sam, who caught it and began playing with it in his hands.

 

“Let me get this straight,” Dean said. “To steal the Kobalt Nocturne... you went to visit – what was her name? – Lady Bentley. You worked your mind mojo on her, earned her trust, told her you could keep the diamond out of the Jaybird’s hands. She handed you the diamond, you had Kevin Tran make you a copy—”

 

“I put the fake into the crate in the gallery’s vault,” Castiel nodded. “The real one was at the bottom of my fishbowl.”

 

Sam and Dean gave the same chuckle, and Castiel lowered his eyes, sharing their amusement.

 

“The Kobalt Nocturne belongs to Jimmy Novak, legally,” Castiel explained. “Like I said earlier, Lady Bentley signed over ownership to me, in exchange for not letting the gem fall into ‘the wrong hands’, as it were. So long as Kevin keeps his word and says nothing of what I did at his shop today, Bentley will live the rest of her life thinking whatever she wants to think about the whereabouts of her diamond. And I owe nothing to the police department. She trusted me, not them.”

 

Dean whistled a note, impressed by the intricate lace of lies and deception Castiel had woven so flawlessly. Somehow, not one person had been hurt by his deeds. In fact, everyone involved was presumably under the impression that Jimmy Novak had helped them in some way.

 

“Over the weekend,” Castiel went on, “I returned to the sculpture gallery, guarding the fake diamond, doing Novak’s duty. I waited around with a half-dozen guards for the Jaybird to show. They all intended to catch the thief in the act, poor souls. I was there to reinforce that belief. Once an hour, I sent in a guard to check the fake was still in place, and we hadn’t been looted without our knowing.

 

“Late in the evening, when my shift comes around, I go in to ‘check’ if the fake diamond is still in the vault – obviously it was. I snuck it into my pocket, leaving behind the Jaybird’s feather. Remember, this is the fake I’m removing here. Even if I got caught in the act – unlikely – I was only taking the fake, so I wasn’t necessarily doing anything wrong. My only goal at that point was to leave the vault empty, save my calling card. I lock up again, telling the other guards with a weary sigh that everything is in order, and I’m heading home for the night, since the Jaybird probably isn’t coming tonight...”

 

“That was when—” Dean halted, and chose his words more carefully. “You snuck home, fed your fish... Had wine with me.”

 

“Yes.” Castiel smiled, both he and Dean enjoying the private memory of their first kiss. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you at first, Dean. I suspected you were waiting – I’d hoped if I came in through the back door you’d lose face and go to bed. Perhaps that was nonsensical. But I _was_ horribly tired; Novak had been surveilling the gallery all weekend with no sleep. I only planned to feed my fish, then rest up until I was summoned back to the gallery, once someone noticed the jewel was gone.”

 

“What about after?” Dean prompted. “You had some sandwiches and wine, but what then?”

 

“I snuck back out,” Castiel said. “As Novak. I returned to the gallery according to plan, responding to a midnight telephone call from a guard. He’d checked the vault, only to find the Jaybird had come and gone, and the fake jewel had been stolen. He sounded so disappointed that the thief slipped through his fingers...” Castiel pulled a sorry expression, but after exhaling a breath, he continued, “I spoke to several dozen newspaper reporters, gave my interviews, promising New York that I’ll find the thief eventually, that I’ve made it my life’s focus, et cetera, et cetera. Over the next few weeks, so long as I’m still in the city, I plan to follow through, and have Novak interrogate jewellery store owners to find anyone’s attempts to fence fake diamonds. I intend to maintain my cover indefinitely – but I do have methods to reveal the truth, should the need arise.”

 

Castiel smirked, and added, “The best part is, throughout all of this, should I ever have been captured red-handed with the real diamond, all I had to say is that I put the wrong gem back in the vault. Easy to mistake; they’re identical. I’ve pulled off more than fifty heists around New York and neighbouring states, all much like this. Some heists I’ve blamed on copycats to keep the heat off Novak, and some appear as false alarms, but they’re all me. The best heists are the ones that go unnoticed, even after years.”

 

“Why does it have to be so complicated?” Sam asked. “Why all the going back and forth? Why have a fake gem made, if you could just claim the real one was taken? Novak could just say he caught a clue in the process, so he doesn’t look useless. Wouldn’t it have been simpler just to leave the real gem in the vault, and take that the way you took the fake?”

 

“How do you think I’ve come so far, Sam?” Castiel smiled. “The less sense my plans make, the less likely they are to be understood and thereby discovered. Most people would write off my parallel lives as being too much work for one person to commit to, calling it nonsense. As things are now, I could joke to other officers about being the Jaybird myself, and they’d laugh.”

 

“So you got away with it again,” Dean sighed, full to the brim with satisfaction. “Anyone ever mention that intelligence is an attractive quality in a man, Cas? Because _boy_ , I’d bet there ain’t too many women in the world who wouldn’t bat her eyelashes if she heard you talkin’.” Dean gave Castiel a quick wink, immediately drawing a deep breath and changing the position of his arms so Sam was distracted away.

 

“I suspect the diamonds themselves are somewhat alluring, too,” Castiel supposed.

 

Dean bit the side of his lip, grinning. “Yeah, you might say that. Although...” with a disapproving quirk of his eyebrow, Dean added, “as glad as I am to know all this about you, you probably just exposed the heart of every magic trick you had going for you. A good magician never reveals his secrets, Cas.”

 

Castiel lifted his eyebrows, acknowledging the wisdom of Dean’s statement. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long... I would never have handed you that tie pin if I wasn’t ready to reveal myself to you. I want—” He inhaled, frowning. “I want you to be part of my life.” He looked at Dean plainly, openly, with no attempt to hide from Sam. “Whether we fly into the sunset or stay in New York forever, I want you _with_ me, Dean. Secrets and thrills of all sorts come with the package. If revealing all my tricks means there’s no magic left in the end, so be it. I want you to know the truth. The truth of everything. Not something else, not some wild, beautiful fantasy. It’ll only be as heartless and fake as that crystal lump Sam’s holding.”

 

Dean let go of all his breath at once, and he had to grip the back of his chair to keep his hands from reaching to his lover. “Cas,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Cas... Oh. You don’t realise how beautiful the truth really is.”

 

Castiel gazed at Dean. Slowly, the seam of his pink lips parted.

 

“Your life,” Dean said, looking at Castiel’s wringing hands, “everything you kept from me, your double life – _triple_ life... There’s nothing I don’t love about that. Nothing I don’t love about y—”

 

Dean swallowed his final word. His eyes darted to Sam, then to the floor.

 

A silence descended, the pressure of it pounding at Dean’s eardrums.

 

Sam cleared his throat very quietly, checking his wristwatch. “It’s, um... one o’clock. I oughta be getting to bed, I have to be up for work in the evening.”

 

“Eat something,” Dean said, eyes flicking to Sam’s. “Don’t sleep on an empty stomach, you get nightmares. Daymares, even, since the sun’s up.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam said, slapping his knees to push himself up. “I’m opening a can of soup.” After a pause, he added, “You two want any?”

 

Dean and Castiel made a short, sharp racket of polite luncheon requests, and gave Sam their thanks. Then the room fell prey to the silence again.

 

Behind Sam’s back, Dean and Castiel shared a tender glance. Neither could determine what Sam thought of two of them, but there was no aggression in the way Sam opened the soup, which Dean saw as a relief.

 

While Sam heated the soup on the stove, Dean and Castiel turned their conversation to other Paper Jaybird capers.

 

“Don’t give away the punchline first,” Dean complained, after Castiel had told a few of those tales. “Offer a tidbit to lead your audience in, sure, but it’s meant to be about the story, Cas. The journey. The build, the twists, the turns, and the climax. The French Ambassador’s wall scratching you up is a fine-and-dandy tale by itself, but I want to know what _led_ to you climbing over a barbed-wire blockade in the first place. Tell me about how the guy flaunted his foreign jewels, claiming that they’re the rarest of diamonds, only for them to be white sapphires! Tell me about that itch you get in your fingers, or the hot _pulse_ in your belly when you figure out what you’re gonna take. It’s the time the Paper Jaybird almost got caught! What happens next? How’s he going to escape this time? Flash! Bang! Poetry and suspense!”

 

Castiel only stared, blank-faced, so Dean racked his brain for another approach. “Here,” he said, getting up. “Let me show you.”

 

Dean went up to Sam, ducking under his arm to pull the box of golden playing cards from his pocket. A tingle burst in Dean’s stomach, excited by a thing so precious, sitting so neatly in his hand. “Like this,” he said, pulling the cards from the packet. He put the empty box on the table, then shuffled the deck in practiced hands, scanning the card faces, preparing to do a new trick. He settled his ass against the edge of the table, legs apart around Castiel’s chair. Castiel turned in his seat to watch.

 

Dean went on mixing up the cards in splayed hands, aiming to impress rather than shift the order of the deck. He moved his fingers fast and lavishly, flipping the cards into staircases, making them walk up his fingers, fanning them out in a peacock tail before making them fly from hand to hand. Their gold edges shone with afternoon light, reflecting a buttery sheen across Castiel’s face.

 

“One little jaybird went to market,” Dean said, holding up a card. Castiel looked at it, nodded, and Dean folded it back into the deck. “Though that little jaybird wished he was at home.” Dean cut the deck, sat the bottom half upon the top, then spread his hands and made the cards blur, leap from his hands, turn in the air, then land neatly back in one palm. “That same little jaybird flapped his wings very hard—” Dean struck a fingertip along the cards’ foiled edges, flip-flip-flip, and paused, pulling out two cards and showing them both to Castiel. “But that jaybird... he didn’t go home alone.”

 

Dean grinned broadly. “Is this your card?” he asked. He already knew it was. Castiel’s eyes were as wide as coins.

 

“How did you—?!”

 

Dean shrugged. He turned the cards over and looked at them. He held two Kings, side-by-side. Both were the King of Hearts. He turned them over again, admiring their backs. One fish was the pretty golden one, but the other was a simple red fish, snuck in there from his usual pack when he’d gone over to Sam.

 

“You won’t tell me how you did that, will you,” Castiel said. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

 

“No,” Dean agreed. “But...” He frowned. “I actually... I’m not sure _how_ I did that.” He hesitated. “I mean, I know how the red fish got there, but how the hell did I find the King of Hearts in the gold pack? I never looked at the order for more than a second.”

 

Castiel didn’t look bothered. “You have talent, Dean. Raw, unadulterated talent.”

 

Dean wanted to disagree, but Castiel set a finger on his lips and stopped him. “You’ve never done a trick as superb as that,” Castiel said. “This was imaginative, and it told a story. I see the point you were making now, about the build-up. You always tried too hard before. If anything, I think this proves you’re better off working from the heart, instinctively, rather than by careful calculation. Unlike myself. When I work impulsively from the heart, that’s when I screw up. Like with the tie pin. I cut that far too close for comfort.”

 

Dean gazed at him. He had no doubt Castiel was correct. They each had different failings. But the fact Sam had to clear his throat twice before Castiel broke eye contact with Dean was testament to their shared weakness. Like every night they lost themselves to their music, they weren’t paying enough attention to what was around them, too wrapped up in each other.

 

“Soup’s up,” Sam said, pushing two bowls down the table, keeping the third for himself.

 

“Thank you,” Castiel said. “Excuse me, I’ll be one minute. I have to wash up.” He touched Dean’s arm as he passed by, making his way to the bathroom.

 

When the bathroom door closed, Sam let out a sigh.

 

“What?” Dean asked brashly, daring his brother to challenge them.

 

“I didn’t say anything,” Sam said, raising his hands halfway in a wide-eyed surrender.

 

“You were thinkin’ it,” Dean grumbled. “Just say it out loud and get it over with.”

 

Sam chewed on his tongue for a moment. Then he shook his head and looked down. “There’s nothing to say. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Ugh! Don’t try and tell me you haven’t noticed—”

 

“I said there’s nothing to say!” Sam snapped, handing Dean his soup. “Sit down, eat this, and shut up.”

 

Dean drew breath, but thought better of his retort. What if this was Sam offering them a free pass? What if he was willing to let everything he’d seen and heard slide, pushing it under the rug, so to speak? What if there was nothing to say because, indeed, it was safest and easiest for all of them to say nothing?

 

That was probably the best possible deal Dean could ever have expected.

 

So Dean smirked, stirring his soup. “Hey, Sammy...”

 

“Mh?”

 

“This slop looks like pigswill. Where’d you even get this crap?”

 

“It tastes better than it looks,” Sam said. “Just eat it.”

 

Dean sat at the table properly, tucking himself in. He caught Sam’s eye, and they shared a brief ocular conversation. Dean gave his thanks, while Sam gave his acknowledgement, forgiveness, and, more-or-less, his acceptance.

 

Dean smiled, and reached for the salt.

  
«··· ✧✦✧ ···»


	10. Our Needs As Individuals

Sam and Dean’s electric fan kept up a steady whirring, its pleasant coolness teasing away the sweat that formed on Castiel’s temples. Dean was like half-molten lava in his arms, far too hot, but perfectly relaxed, lying with his back against Castiel’s chest.

 

The pair basked in the reflected sunlight that gleamed off the window to Castiel’s apartment, leaving their figures edged in gold. Dean’s fingers were all that moved; he plucked lazily at his guitar, eyes closed, making up songs.

 

Neither spoke for many hours, but Castiel felt as though they didn’t need to. Holding his arms around the one he loved, and being content with the way Dean breathed, that was enough. Dean’s languid pose and careless strumming said plenty.

 

They shared their peace.

 

Then, out of nowhere, Dean parted his lips to speak. “I’m not surprised at who you are,” he said, voice husky from disuse. “I never decided you _had_ to be a criminal, but I never ruled it out.”

 

Castiel wasn’t sure what to say to that. So he said nothing.

 

“And Cas...?” Dean shifted his head, so Castiel saw more of his profile, hundreds of freckles across his nose, long eyelashes fluttering. “I just want you to know... I’m proud of you.”

 

“You are?”

 

Dean nodded, settling back down with his head on Castiel’s shoulder. “Stealing from the rich to give to the poor, that’s about as honourable as a man could get, you little slyboots.” Grinning, he played out a gentle tune for a few seconds, then stilled the guitar strings with the flesh of his palm. “If you’re Robin Hood, I guess that makes me Little John.”

 

“Oh, no,” Castiel laughed. “Sam is Little John.”

 

Dean smiled, turning his head again. “I’m Maid Marian?”

 

“You’re Maid Marian,” Castiel agreed, pushing a small kiss to Dean’s dewy temple. “My sweetheart.”

 

Dean smiled wider, rolling halfway off the window ledge to put his bare feet on the floor, solely for the purpose of kissing Castiel full on the mouth. They held together for quite some time, slowly exhaling against each other’s cheeks. Castiel’s chest went tight with excitement, and he basked in the sparkling sensations that flowed through him, for they felt near-magical. When Dean pulled back, he had golden sunlight blazing in his eyes, and Castiel smiled. “Hm-hm! I can see Sherwood Forest in your eyes. They’re as green as the trees in summertime.”

 

Dean laughed, headbutting Castiel’s chin. “Ever the poet, huh.”

 

“And ever the dreamer,” Castiel said, his body following Dean’s movement as Dean slipped away, standing back inside the apartment to stretch. Castiel remained sitting, hands holding the edge of the sill. He hesitated before he spoke again, waiting until Dean had set his guitar down on a dining chair. “Dare I ask,” Castiel began, “have you lent any more thoughts to—” he flustered, and finished, “whether you’d ride away with me, on horseback into the forest...”

 

Dean looked up, staring curiously at Castiel. He’d noticed the pause. “Is that you asking if I’ve decided to leave New York?”

 

Castiel ducked his head. “It’s too soon, isn’t it? I don’t want to push you.”

 

“Hey, ask me all you want, Cas,” Dean said. “But no, I ain’t made up my mind yet.” He tugged at his shirt hem, wafting air against his belly. For a while, he seemed thoughtful – then he quickly became distracted. “Wait here a minute,” he said, before stalking away.

 

Castiel watched as Dean opened the door to Sam’s bedroom with great stealth, then crept inside.

 

Castiel heard a rustling, then a creak, then Dean’s grunt of exertion. Not too long later, Dean emerged, waddling in a side-step, carrying a giant cork pinboard between far-outstretched hands. Castiel went to him, carefully closing the bedroom door. It was mid-afternoon now, and it was still too early to wake Sam up for work.

 

“Here,” Dean said. “Look at this.” He carried the pinboard across the room, then set it down on the floor, leaning against the wall below the window. He sat cross-legged in front of it, reaching to angle the spinning fan towards his face.

 

Castiel sat beside Dean. On the pinboard was a map of the world.

 

“Where would you go first?” Dean asked, hands on his knees, leaning forward eagerly. “In theory, I mean.” His bright eyes settled on Castiel’s. “Tell me somethin’ beautiful, jaybird.”

 

“I would head west,” Castiel said with a nod. “And south. It makes no sense – it’s too hot in the south, especially at this time of the year, and heading east towards Europe would be a more logical plan for a jewel thief – which is precisely why I’d go west.” He glanced at Dean with a smile. “I prefer to live my life in ways that throw other people off. I’d want the world to think there was good reason for me to head to New Mexico, or Texas. When in actual fact I want to go to... let’s see... Morocco. Or Poland.”

 

He lowered his eyes, observing Dean’s hesitation. Perhaps Dean didn’t understand.

 

“There would be people chasing us, Dean,” Castiel explained. “The moment Jimmy Novak leaves the city in pursuit of the Paper Jaybird, I, being both of those people, become half an outlaw. If you’re with me, you’re an outlaw too. We live on the lam. A trip around the world isn’t a vacation, it’s a never-ending fight to get away. It’ll be constant, day and night. We could never let our guard down. You take my hand and you’re part of my world, Dean. And my world is – _relentless_.”

 

Dean’s eyelashes fluttered, lips parting. Ah, yes. He was starting to understand. “The stories you tell... That’s your whole life, isn’t it?” He gazed at Castiel as though he revelled in seeing him stare back. “Every word you say is calculated. You don’t go anywhere without knowing what will happen when you get there.”

 

“There are few things in my life I don’t have a plan for,” Castiel acknowledged. “If we stay in New York, I have jewel heists scheduled well in advance – with backup plans, and backup plans for the backup plans. I’ve constructed storylines for Jimmy Novak and the Paper Jaybird that I’m prepared to play out for the next five years, including alternate timelines, should I need them. But I’ve never been so strict with my schedules that I can’t accept a failure. Messed up plans are as much part of my life as ones that go right.” He tipped his head, reaching to touch Dean’s hand upon his knee. “You, Dean... You are, in every way, the _one_ thing I didn’t plan for.”

 

Dean smiled in a small way, his eyes soft. “Yeah. I could say the same for you.”

 

Castiel gripped Dean’s hand, and was pleased to feel Dean grip him in return.

 

“We’ll make it up as we go,” Dean said, echoing the words he’d heard Castiel use before. “Do what nobody expects. Throw the world off the scent.”

 

“There are jewels in Europe I’m eager to get my hands on,” Castiel said, turning his eyes to the map on the pinboard. “And there’s poverty everywhere; no doubt we’ll find people to help.”

 

Dean’s breath hitched. When Castiel looked at him, he was relieved to see Dean smiling, immense vitality shining in his eyes.

 

“This excites you,” Castiel observed.

 

“What did you expect?” Dean drawled, budging up to Castiel, knocking their shoulders together. “You’re talking about international malefaction and good deeds as part of the same concept. Savin’ people, stealin’ things! Can I help that that turns me on?”

 

Castiel laughed, head down.

 

“And you want me with you,” Dean added, his words soft, uttered against Castiel’s cheek. “Honestly, man, I can barely believe this is real life.”

 

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel real,” Castiel said, lifting his head and gazing at the map. “Some days I feel like I’m an incoherent character living out a work of fiction. Other days I feel like God, in control of everything.”

 

“You say it like that, Cas, it makes you sound unstable.”

 

“Did I ever imply I wasn’t?” Castiel looked at Dean carefully, holding his gaze. “I’m not crazy, but I am unpredictable. You know less about me than you realise, Dean. I’ve never lied to you, but I’ve told you so many stories, wild ideas, throwing beautiful veils over perfect ugliness. I’m three people at once. You only know one third of who I am.”

 

Dean pressed his lips together. “No, you’re wrong.” He paused, then said again, “You’re wrong. I know every inch of you. I know you better than anyone ever did. Better than your own damn mother, better than your fish. I know you just as well as you know me.”

 

“How so?!”

 

“Great stories don’t get pulled from nowhere, Cas. Every creative thing you bring into existence is part of you. Maybe I don’t know every detail of Jimmy Novak’s life, or the Paper Jaybird’s, but I know Castiel Hartley, through your stories, and your music. And that’s the part of you that matters. Castiel Hartley was a soldier, he plays the trumpet, he loves his goldfish, and he calls me sweet names. He moonlights as a jewel thief, and works as a private detective, and his greatest ambition is to cross the sea and play at being Robin Hood, but he won’t do it without me by his side. He lies by omission. He’s a little stubborn. Sometimes feels outta his depth doing everyday things. But when it comes to fucking up the system, he’s smart beyond belief. What else is there to know, really? What can’t I figure out later, along the road?”

 

Castiel took a breath, but found he didn’t have any decent words to use it for. So he let it go. “That _is_ about it, I suppose.” He smiled, relieved.

 

“I’ll take the instability, Cas,” Dean said, kissing Castiel’s cheek. “ _God_ knows I don’t wanna give up the good stuff I have, all this solid ground. But I know better than anyone I’m getting an exchange worth the world’s weight in pearls and rubies. You.” When Castiel looked at Dean in disbelief, Dean kissed him again, grinning. “Christ,” he murmured against Castiel’s mouth. “Who’d’a thought _I’d_ have to reassure _you_ that you’re worth loving? Look at the pair of us, Cas. Self-depreciatin’ riffraff with overactive imaginations, that’s us.”

 

Castiel kissed Dean back, eyes open. He pulled away soon after, his mind alight with possibilities. “You sound as if you’ve decided,” he said, looking back and forth between Dean’s eyes. “You’ll come with me?”

 

Dean’s smile faltered. “Um...” He looked hastily towards the map. “Poland, right? How would we get to Poland from Texas?”

 

“Head west, to... ah... San Francisco. Then north to Vancouver. There’s a port there, there’s always steamships leaving. From there, we set sail to Hawaii.”

 

“Then catch a plane to Japan!” Dean said, grabbing a couple of red pins from the board, releasing a page of notes Sam had stuck at the side. He crammed the pins into the dot that was Hawaii, and then Tokyo, the capital city at the crooked edge of Japan.

 

“Siam, and Burma,” Castiel said, guiding Dean’s hand from behind, together brushing their fingers along the next continent along. “China. Tibet, India... Then Persia... And Egypt, of course...”

 

Before they reached Morocco, Dean’s hand trembled in Castiel’s, and Castiel paused to let Dean settle. Dean’s whole body was trembling, in fact.

 

“Are you all right?” Castiel asked, caressing Dean’s hand with a thumb.

 

“Yeah. Yeah,” Dean nodded, gulping, convincing himself. “It’s just... the world’s a big place, y’know?” He leaned into Castiel, pressing his forehead to Castiel’s cheek. “Shit,” he breathed, “I moved to the Big Apple with Sam and I thought this was as far as I’d ever go. I gave _up_ the eternal road trip, Cas. I... I gave it up for my brother. And now...”

 

“Now you’ve giving up your home for me,” Castiel finished. He wrapped an arm around Dean and squeezed, squishing his cheek against the crown of Dean’s head. “It’s difficult, I understand. It’s a big change.”

 

“Just thinking about it makes me...” Dean shook his head, inhaling as he sat up straight, kneeling. “I don’t know. I feel... small. What good can we do, Cas? What difference would a few displaced jewels make to anyone on this planet? Look at it. It’s huge. If we do this, we’ve got a lifetime of work ahead of us.”

 

“Isn’t that the idea?” Castiel smiled.

 

Dean snorted, though he seemed to smile back. “Yeah.”

 

Together they gazed at the map, with all its colours and overlapping place names, printed in curves at the shores of each continent. The place names were smashed all over the paper for the more tightly-packed areas, like Europe and Arabia, and all the letters would surely look like a big indecipherable jumble if Castiel didn’t already know the map by heart. That had to be part of what overwhelmed Dean. Perhaps he’d never looked at the map thinking their plans could be real, so seeing it anew would be paralysing.

 

Every place in the world was different, and each area had a name, and within each area there were cities, and towns within the cities, and each town could have thousands of people living there, all sharing relationships with scores of others, each of them with names and jobs and dreams and fears. Each person was but one speck on the face of the planet, and in the grand scheme of the universe, they were insignificant.

 

“Our smallness does not negate our needs as individuals,” Castiel assured Dean, touching a hand to the back of his burning-hot neck. “Nor does our smallness dictate that we cannot change the fate of some other small beings. Whatever good we do, Dean, it helps.”

 

Dean looked up, interested, and Castiel smiled. “For example, my fish,” Castiel said. “He has thoughts of his own. Granted, those thoughts are most likely about food and swimming, but perhaps he too ponders the significance of his own existence. It’s my duty to feed him and clean his tank. He may be tiny, but there’s no doubt he deserves to have a good life. My fish makes me happy. And every little fish has a purpose, Dean.” Lightly, Castiel touched a fingertip to Dean’s nose. “Your purpose was once to care for Sam. Now your purpose is whatever you want it to be.”

 

When Dean went back to staring at the map, Castiel assured him, ever so softly, “You don’t have to come away with me if you don’t want to. But I know you have life goals beyond endless shoe-shining. You could play guitar and sing, or do your magic tricks on a stage, and I’d be in the audience every night to applaud. Whatever happens, whatever you choose, we’ll make it work.”

 

Dean smiled gratefully. He’d turned to watch Castiel’s lips while he spoke, and now he met Castiel’s eyes. “I think there’s better ways to put my devious hands to good use,” Dean said slyly. “I’m better at magic tricks than I’ll ever be at music. And hey, a master of bait-and-switch might come in handy when you’re stealing ice from an Arabian king. Every jewel thief could do with a magician for a partner, right? In theory, that is. We make things disappear.”

 

“Yes,” Castiel said. “In theory, we _would_ make a good team.”

 

“The Paper Jaybird and the Magician, taking the world’s underbelly by storm.”

 

Castiel tilted his head, eyeing Dean with a hopeful feeling in his heart. “Is that what you want? Is your mind made up now?”

 

Dean took a moment to properly contemplate his answer. But he looked away, back to the map. “I don’t know what’s holding me back, Cas. I wanna say yes, but I just... can’t. Maybe fear. I’m not sure. There’s somethin’ missing.”

 

“Are you saying no?”

 

“I’m saying I still haven’t decided. I can’t think straight.”

 

“You barely slept last night,” Castiel reminded him. “Come to think of it, neither did I. You’re probably just tired.”

 

Dean sighed.

 

“Sleep on it,” Castiel said, leaning to kiss Dean’s stubbled jaw. “Sleep on it a hundred times if you have to. But I’ll keep asking until you give me an answer.”

 

Dean chuckled. “You’re a sap.”

 

“Is that a problem?”

 

Dean smiled so much that his eyes crinkled all around. “Nuh-uh. I love the sweet-talk. But don’t you dare tell Sam I’m a hopeless romantic, all right? I’m his tough-guy enemy-fightin’ food-cookin’ big-ass-brother, not a cuddly bear.”

 

“Frankly, Dean, I think Sam understands most facets of you just fine.”

 

Dean chuckled, then laughed. “Yeah.”

 

“Let’s go to bed _now_ ,” Castiel said, touching his fingers beneath Dean’s jaw, stroking him. “Let’s just sleep and think about all of this tomorrow. The big, wide world can wait one more day.”

 

“Okay,” Dean agreed. “Give me some time to make Sam’s food first, then I’ll join you.”

 

“I have to feed my fish.”

 

“What a coincidence.”

 

Castiel grinned, smooching Dean’s ear just before Dean stood up to leave.

 

“Oh— Cas?” Dean halted, halfway to the kitchen side of the room. He looked back, eyes dipping down Castiel’s body, then back up. “Let’s sleep naked. It’s way too hot for clothes.”

 

Castiel looked down at his shirt, seeing the cotton stuck to his skin with sweat. Sleep naked, with Dean? Well, there would be no arguments from him.

 

«··· ✧✦✧ ···»

 

Castiel lay awake, staring at the black void of Dean’s bedroom ceiling. Dean lay inches away, breath easing over Castiel’s bare shoulder every few seconds. He was fast asleep. It was no surprise he was exhausted. The only sleep he’d had consisted of a few minutes in the bath, then a couple of hours before work, early that morning. He’d sprinted to work and back. And he’d had so many revelations thrown at him in his waking hours, Castiel was impressed that the worst outcome was that Dean had missed most of his work day, and now couldn’t make up his mind on a difficult, life-changing issue.

 

Dean was a patient man, Castiel thought. He was doing the best he could do under the circumstances, as he always did. It was incredible that he was so accepting, and understanding.

 

But after all Dean had accepted of Castiel, it bothered Castiel deeply that there were some things Dean wasn’t ready to accept.

 

One thing in particular.

 

Castiel rolled over in the bed, facing Dean. Dean lay open-mouthed, his lips plush, his breath slow. He lay in the nude, no blankets to cover him. Castiel could see none of his freckles in the dull moonlight from the covered window, but he knew they were there. He imagined all the freckles lit up like the night sky, connected in lines of white, like a star constellation in a textbook diagram. The formations were shaped around Dean’s body, with dense galaxies glowing upon his mouth and eyelashes.

 

Though hours had passed, and the sun has since set, Dean’s playful words still sounded in Castiel’s mind, his smile warmed by muted evening light. _Maybe we could try it? C’mon, just once. Just a little bit, Cas. You’ll like it. I can make it good for you, I promise. And if you don’t like it, we don’t have to follow through. Please. Please..._

 

Dean had begged for a sexual touch, but Castiel denied him. They’d been giggling and kissing at the time; Castiel thought it was an amicable exchange. It was easy to turn Dean down in a light-hearted way. Dean didn’t seem to mind too much, and Castiel wasn’t bothered that he’d asked. They kissed again, and rolled over together to kiss a different way, slower and deeper.

 

But then Dean had asked a question – not maliciously, not at all, but out of curiosity. _Did someone hurt you? Is that why you don’t want to?_

 

Castiel had laughed no, because nobody had. They’d carried on like before.

 

 _Because I’d understand,_ Dean had said, breaking the kiss. _If you didn’t wanna touch because someone else did it wrong before, I’d get it. You can tell me._

 

_That’s not why, Dean. Now hush, would you?_

 

Kissing and kissing and kissing.

 

 _That’s what is was for me,_ Dean said quietly, murmuring against Castiel’s throat. _I thought I’d never want anyone ever again until I met you. I want you so bad, Cas. Fuck, I’m_ aching _from how bad I want you._

 

He hadn’t realised, Castiel supposed. Dean didn’t know how much it stung to be told that kind of thing. What was Castiel meant to agonise over first? The anguish of Dean’s past? Anger towards the people who used him badly? Or the knowledge that Dean craved for a particular healing touch, something that felt impossible for Castiel to provide? What if, after everything, Castiel was not the right person for Dean? Dean needed someone who could make love to him the way he wanted.

 

When Castiel refused Dean’s advances once more, Dean had lain back and touched himself with his own hand, quick, gasping, holding Castiel’s shoulders and crying out with lust as his thighs shook. Castiel made sure to hold Dean’s gaze as he came. But, as satisfied as Dean looked afterwards, his words had already done the damage.

 

Castiel had kissed Dean and praised him as lovingly as he could, wanting him to _know_ , beyond a doubt, that there were ample ways to show romantic appreciation other than through sexual touch. But would Dean understand? Would he ever stop wanting Castiel that way?

 

Castiel thought himself cruel, wanting to make Dean stop, the same way Dean wanted Castiel to start. They were made for each other intellectually, romantically, sensually, and in any other way that the intimacy of two people could be conceived, but they were not compatible in a sexual way. How important was that, truly? Castiel’s own sexuality was an insignificant part of him, but Dean’s was a driving force in his life – or, at least, it had been in the past. Would it be again in the future?

 

They’d settled down to sleep, kissing softly. Dean had become malleable in Castiel’s hands, his sweat damp on the sheets. Castiel had liked how he smelled, how his orgasm made him reek, and he’d kissed Dean’s throat until they both moaned, but there was no stir of blood in Castiel’s lower half. He enjoyed Dean from the heart, not anywhere else.

 

Dean had fallen asleep within seconds. Castiel was then left to watch Dean drift away, his consciousness absent, all his trust resting in Castiel’s arms.

 

Castiel was still watching him now that it was dark. Oh, Dean was divine. Castiel wished he felt desire for him, but all he felt was devotion. Maybe he didn’t love Dean right. Maybe this wasn’t romantic love, maybe this was just friendship.

 

No... No, that couldn’t be true. Castiel loved Dean with all of his being, and it certainly wasn’t brotherly. A part of him liked to see Dean aroused, liked to hear him moaning and see him tugging on himself, because he liked to see Dean having fun, but the thought of _pleasuring_ him – no! No! Castiel almost recoiled from Dean at the thought.

 

Castiel buried his face in Dean’s pillow and broke apart, weeping, holding back every sob so he wouldn’t wake his beloved. Frustration and disappointment and guilt and sadness and _pain_ clenched in his stomach, he _felt_ all of it, and he allowed it to overwhelm him until he was shaking and silent.

 

He shuddered and sighed, wiping his face on the pillow, then he looked back at Dean, wanting to imagine his starlight one last time before crying himself to sleep.

 

But he was met with a kiss.

 

Castiel gasped, darting back in the bed. “What—?!”

 

“It’s okay,” Dean whispered, caressing Castiel’s cheek, bringing him closer. “You woke me up, and I... Cas... Whatever it is, Cas, it’s _okay_. Was it a nightmare? No, no, don’t cry. Don’t cry. Sh-sh...”

 

Castiel gaped, staring blindly at the warm, comforting shape before him. Dean was merely a shadow in the dark, but he kissed Castiel, peppering him with affection while making reassuring noises. Castiel’s tears flowed from him in silence, fresh and hot.

 

“Tell me,” Dean breathed. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

 

Castiel wiped his fingers across his eyes, feeling wetness in his lashes. “I— I can’t...” He sniffed up a dribble, then swallowed hard. “I, um. It’s nothing, really.”

 

“Nothin’ don’t bring a grown man to tears, Cas,” Dean said. He stroked his fingers through Castiel’s sweaty hair, soothing away a subtle headache.

 

“It’s just...” Castiel let out a wet, sad sigh. “I’ll only disappoint you. You want things from me... Things I can’t ever give.”

 

Dean stroked Castiel’s hair a little slower this time, considering Castiel’s confession.

 

“Sexually,” Castiel said, hating that he blushed. “My reluctance is... inexplicable.”

 

“Cas,” Dean breathed. He inhaled and exhaled twice more before he spoke again. “I— I’m sorry.” His voice cracked under the weight of emotion. Whatever he believed he was apologising for, he really seemed to mean it. “This is about what I said earlier? When I asked for—? Crap. _Shit_. I’m sorry. I knew I was treading on eggshells, but you were laughing, I didn’t know it bothered you this much.” He exhaled shakily. “D... Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“I just want to sleep,” Castiel whispered, shaking his head and pushing up to Dean, ignoring the heat and the sweat. “Hold me.”

 

Dean smiled against Castiel’s forehead. “Hm. Sweetheart.”

 

Castiel curled his fingers around the back of Dean’s neck, finding comfort in such a small intimacy.

 

“I love you, okay?” Dean said, quietly. “But I also... don’t know everything. Remember that. Please. I’m gonna drive you crazy at times, because I’m me, and that’s what I do – but I don’t wanna hurt you. What I want is _this_.” He sighed into Castiel’s hair. “Tell me what’s eatin’ ya, we’ll talk it out like adults, ‘kay? And end with a snuggle. I don’t wanna wake up and find you sniffling into my pillow, dammit.”

 

Castiel gave a small, aborted laugh, which felt nice after crying. He felt lighter. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

 

“Get some rest, jaybird,” Dean said, kissing Castiel’s eyelids, one after the other. “Listen. I— I won’t ask you to touch me any more. Not if you don’t want to. I should’ve listened to you earlier. If you wanna try something, someday, it’s up to you, all right? Never’s fine too. I get it. Okay, Cas? I _get_ it. You’re the one who gets to decide. It’s your choice. It’s _your_ choice.”

 

For a second more, he cradled Castiel’s head in his hands, presumably waiting for acknowledgement. When Dean felt Castiel nod, he exhaled in relief, and smooched Castiel’s lips with a soft pressure, sighing against him. “Love you,” Dean murmured. Castiel felt his smile.

 

Castiel drew in one deep, humid breath, held it, then let it go against Dean’s chest. He lay cherished in the strong arms of his lover, and felt reassured.

  
«··· ✧✦✧ ···»


	11. Discovered, Then Disconnected

Sam switched on the light. Lost within a swirl of loose sheets that cascaded off the side of the bed, there Dean lay, embraced by Castiel’s arms from behind. They were both naked. Sam didn’t care to detail the sight. He yanked the pillow from underneath Dean’s head and hit him with it. “Up! Get up! You have to leave. Right now.”

 

Dean jerked awake, gasping as he sat up, squinting, rumpled in every way. “Whassgoin’ on? Sam, wha—?”

 

“Get out of bed,” Sam repeated, tossing the pillow at Castiel, who finally began to stir. “It’s just gone one in the morning. Cas’ cover is blown. You need to get out of New York. Get dressed.” Now Castiel was awake and alert, Sam clapped his hands twice, encouraging urgency. Then he left, leaving the door closed so they could dress in private.

 

In a torrid state, Sam stormed about the apartment, collecting Dean’s toothbrush, razor, and a bar of soap. Then he grabbed some canned food, the only can opener, two serrated knives, and an uncalculated handful of cutlery. There was no telling what he’d need, or where he’d end up.

 

With sweat beading on his forehead now, Sam crawled on his hands and knees to reach under his bed, pulling out a knapsack he hadn’t used since coming to New York. He emptied it onto his bed – books, a case of pencils, writing paper, a water flask. He hesitated, then scooped everything back into the bag. Sam wanted Dean to write home. And, although Sam had been looking for this copy of _Wuthering Heights_ for an embarrassingly long time, perhaps its reappearance in this getaway bag was a sign Dean ought to have it.

 

When Sam heard Dean and Castiel treading into the main room, he left his bedroom and went to the dining table, dumping the knapsack there. Dean and Castiel were a slumping mess, Dean wearing a baggy undershirt and shorts, Castiel in Dean’s bath robe. They both rubbed at their eyes, half-yawning.

 

“Cas, you’d better get your things together,” Sam said, pushing fresh towels to the spine of the knapsack for back padding. “Be careful, and be quick.”

 

“Why?” Castiel rasped, combing his unruly bangs upwards with his fingers. “What’s happened? Am I under suspicion?”

 

“They know it’s you! Well, okay, they know it’s a cop – but it’s only a matter of time before they figure it out! The coppers know the Jaybird is one of them.”

 

“All right,” Dean said placatingly. He put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, gripping him. “If you say it’s time to go, Sammy, it’s time to go. But hold your freakin’ horses steady, man. We’ll get going as soon as we have the full picture. Start from the beginning. Tell us what you heard.”

 

Sam took a deep breath, then blew it out through pursed lips. “I was at the courthouse, up to my neck in filing. I took a midnight break. I just needed to refresh, get some caffeine into my system. I go to the coffee room, and there’s usually cops there. But tonight there’s only a couple women there. And I hear one say ‘ _Paper Jaybird_ ’. It was barely a whisper. But God, I can’t think of anything else, can I? I’ve got jewel heists on my mind.” He chuckled, shooting a tiny grin in Castiel’s direction. “So I went up to them,” Sam went on.

 

 _Good evening, ladies,_ Sam had said, tipping his non-existent hat. _Sam Winchester, law clerk. How do you do. I, uh, couldn’t help but notice your uniforms. Are you officers?_

 

 _Patrolwoman Jody Mills,_ stated the taller woman, offering her hand to shake. Sam shook; it didn’t seem appropriate to bow or kiss her hand. Officer Mills looked striking; her green eyes seemed intent and her hair was cropped short. Her shake was firm, and she smiled. _This here’s my partner, Officer Donna Hanscum._

 

“Donna was shorter,” Sam told Dean, holding a hand at his chest-height. “Round-faced, red-cheeked, blonde. And... really smiley.” Sam couldn’t help but grin, remembering the casual sway in Donna’s handshake. “I asked why I don’t see lady coppers around the courthouse more often – out of curiosity, partly, but also because I figured I could do what Cas does. Get on a stranger’s good side, show some enthusiasm for what they do, and they’ll want to do something for you. So I asked. And Donna said something about the NYPD’s Women’s Bureau.”

 

_Us girlies march to our own drumbeat, ya know? We’d go play cops and robbers with the boys, but we ain’t had the ‘experience’ for the big leagues._

 

Jody had rolled her eyes at that. _Sure,_ she said, almost under her breath. _Experience we’re refused._

 

 _That’s awful,_ Sam said. _Honestly, though, I didn’t know they let women into the police force at all._

 

 _What rock have you been living under?_ Donna had chortled, casting a sidelong glance Jody’s way. _We’ve been patrolwomen since 1917._

 

 _That long!_ Sam exclaimed. _Congratulations._ _Wow. I’ve been tucked away between stacks of paper and filing cabinets for too many years. Damn, I had no idea._

 

 _Yeah_ , Donna said. _We’re the only two, mind, besides our boss. The other officers don’t talk about us much. Or at all, really. They prefer to pretend we don’t exist._

 

Sam raised his eyebrows. _Now I’m wondering what other tidbits I’ve missed because people don’t talk about them._

 

 _You wouldn’t have heard today’s news,_ Donna said, leaning in with a secretive eye, one eyebrow cocked. _Unless you’ve been hiding beneath that rock of yours for more than five years, then you’ve heard of the Paper Jaybird..._

 

 _Of course,_ Sam said. _The jewel thief. Leaves feathers behind, cut from newspapers. Oh, did he steal something else?!_ For a moment, true alarm had broken Sam’s façade.

 

 _Not exactly,_ Donna confided. _The Kobalt Nocturne was the Jaybird’s last score, as far as I know..._ Her eyes shifted to Jody, who had busied herself pouring coffee and stirring milk into it. _Between you ‘n me, I was just saying to Jodes here..._ Donna hesitated, but when Jody gave a shrug of approval, Donna’s confession flooded forth, her voice bursting with excitement: _I was relegated to the evidence locker, and I was going through old boxes, and I found one missing its proper contents. But, was it empty of_ evidence _? Nope!_

 

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. _What was in the box?_

 

 _A feather,_ Donna smirked. _But it was covered in dust –_ years’ _worth of dust. And it wasn’t like the other Jaybird feathers. This one—_

 

Castiel gasped. Sam looked him in the eye, seeing realisation and fear staring back.

 

“I marked the feather in my own handwriting,” Castiel breathed. “I wrote an apology the first time. The newspaper had no significance, it was just what was lying around— Oh, shit. Oh, _shit_.” He bowed his head, hands over his eyes. “All the other times, I only used my pen to _scratch out_ words, leaving the message behind in print. The first time...” Castiel exhaled, eyes moving to meet Dean’s, sorry and scared. “I worked from the heart. Instinctively. All I wanted was to get some money for you, Dean, to free you from those _god_ awful bonds you were in. And I felt guilty, so I wrote the word ‘ _sorry_ ’. I didn’t imagine it would lead back to me until afterwards. Until _now_.”

 

“Those damn instincts, huh,” Dean said, trying to stay lighthearted. But his voice shook, and his sideways smile was forced.

 

 _Question is, who has access to the evidence locker?_ Jody had asked. _The fuzz, that’s who. My theory is, the Jaybird’s a cop. Has been all along. Hiding right under our damn noses. Who else would take a jewel from evidence and have the theft go unnoticed for years?_

 

Sam had felt a chill rush downward along his spine. _You don’t say._

 

Donna nodded. _And that’s not even the juicy part. Me and Jodes were discussing who I oughta tell._ _The main fella on the case, Inspector Novak, I’ve been trying to contact him all night. I sent a telegram – undelivered. I called the telephone number his file gave me – no answer. Me and Jody went to go knock on his door – I figured maybe he was just snoring away after the Kobalt Nocturne madness last night – but we got to his apartment downtown, and there was nobody there. Our knocking woke the neighbours up – and guess what?_

 

Sam gulped. _What?_

 

_Novak’s apartment’s been empty for years. Someone pays the rent, but there’s no tenant. And no contact address._

 

 _Spooky,_ Sam said, nervously. His heart had been pounding in his ears, fresh sweat breaking cold on his lower back.

 

 _Spooky?_ Jody chuckled. _That ain’t spooky, kid, it’s suspicious. We were just discussing what to do next when you walked in. Sad as it is, this isn’t just about finding Novak, or tracking the thief. It’s about doing it right, and working smart. Being ladies makes it a helluva lot harder to keep the credit for our crimesolving._

 

 _Why tell me, then?_ Sam asked, feeling small and honoured. _I’m at the bottom of the food chain, too. What makes you sure I’m not about to run off and claim credit for what you just told me?_

 

Jody smiled knowingly. _You’re the kid Bobby Singer took under his wing, ain’t’cha? If that bookworm do-gooder reputation lines up, Sam Winchester, you haven’t got a sly bone in your body. I wouldn’t trust your brother, though._

 

Sam smirked. That sounded fair. (Dean heard this and scoffed, but couldn’t argue.)

 

 _What if we spoke to the guy who’s always following Novak around?_ Donna suggested. _He always seems real eager to please, ya know? Like he isn’t sure he’d be listened to if he weren’t working under someone as high-profile as Novak. Heh. Poor guy. I know how that feels. What was his name? That gangly, boyish fellow with barely-there eyebrows and a ton of enthusiasm to make up for it._

 

“Garth Fitzgerald,” Castiel said aloud, at the same time as Sam quoted Jody. The name filled the apartment for a number of seconds, and all eyes turned to Castiel. “He’s Novak’s Lieutenant,” Castiel explained, face cast down. “And... a... a friend of mine, I suppose. He trusts me implicitly. I can’t imagine he’d ever suspect Novak if someone suggested the Jaybird was a cop.”

 

“He will once he hears what Officer Mills has to say,” Sam warned.

 

 _Not that I’m one for gossip,_ Jody uttered, _but I’d bet anything that Inspector Novak is the thief all of New York is looking for_. _Tall, dark, brooding,_ and _handsome? Recipe for disaster._

 

 _It fits though, right?!_ Donna chirruped, almost spilling her coffee when she bounced in place. _Novak’s untraceable. And there’s always gaps in his stories. They seem so insignificant at the time – Lady Bentley’s diamond: a prime example, don’t’cha know. Where did that go? The papers never said. And why would Novak allow the press to advertise his plan to catch the Jaybird in the first place? Obviously the thief reads the papers, given the cut-out calling cards. It makes no sense – Novak’s ruining his own plan by talking about it. And one more thing! If the Jaybird is only stealing fake jewels like Novak says, how come the press keeps reporting massive cash donations to homeless shelters and soup kitchens – and, if we get_ really _specific, small independent businesses run by minorities?_

 

Now thoroughly stimulated by her thoughts, there was no quietening Donna: _One time – and this never appeared in the papers – the NYPD Women’s Bureau underwent an investigation for accepting an anonymous donation, which turned out to be sourced directly from the Jaybird’s thefts. Most people figured someone in the financial department just had a bad day, and the numbers slipped everyone’s radar. But when the investigation ends abruptly, with no explanation, then the same anonymous donation rolls in three times later that year... Well..._ Donna tipped her head, indicating something was afoot.

 

 _Almost like someone’s covering for him,_ Jody uttered, turning her eyes away in a significant gesture as she drank some coffee.

 

 _Okay, that’s_ it _. Now we_ gotta _tell someone about this,_ Donna decided, sparks of determination rising in her eyes. _Who knows if the big cheeses even had their eyes on Novak at all. You did,_ Donna added, indicating Jody. _‘Cause, heck, you never trusted him._

 

 _I don’t trust a single man on this planet,_ Jody uttered, eyes turning to Sam. _No offence to you, kid. Despite what I said about you being a do-gooder, you’re not above suspicion. The Jaybird could be anyone with access to the evidence locker. Could be Novak. Could be me. Might even be you._

 

 _Hey, I’m just a lowly law clerk who lives pinned underneath a paperweight,_ Sam joked, hands up.

 

 _That’s just what the Paper Jaybird would say,_ Jody said, raising an eyebrow. She was also joking.

 

 _Can’t say the criminal life doesn’t intrigue me,_ Sam had remarked. _But, uh, in all seriousness... if you ladies want credit for saying it’s Novak, you’d better start talking to someone who’ll listen. Or someone else might talk over you._

 

Sam shrugged. “They left pretty quickly after that, intent on finding Fitzgerald. And I rushed home toot-sweet to warn you.”

 

“Jody and Donna are good officers,” Castiel nodded. His heart wasn’t in his words though, which was understandable, given the pair would have given him away by now. “Sam’s right. Novak’s cover is blown. I will have to leave.”

 

Dean exhaled, eyes lowering to the floor. He said nothing.

 

Castiel reached for Dean’s hand, but stopped short in hesitation. “Dean?” His eyes seemed instinctively drawn to Dean’s heart. “Dean. I... I won’t be able to ask again. I’m going to leave New York tonight, take the first train to Chicago. I won’t come back. If you stay here, we may never cross paths again. This is your _final_ chance to say yes. Will you come with me?”

 

Sam was enthralled by the longing in Castiel’s voice. It must’ve been so hard to phrase his desire as a question rather than a plea.

 

And Dean must’ve been deaf to the tone of Castiel’s words. “I can’t, Cas,” he said. He didn’t meet his friend’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

 

As with Castiel, Sam was startled by the depth of emotion in Dean’s voice. How badly did he want to give a different answer? Why wouldn’t he say yes?

 

Castiel wet his lips with a swift lick of his tongue. “You won’t.”

 

Dean nodded once. His jaw was set; Sam had no doubt he was restraining tears.

 

“So be it,” Castiel uttered. He finally completed his movement, and touched Dean’s hand. The contact was brief. Dean did not respond, so Castiel’s fingers curled back. He turned his body towards Dean’s window, eyes looking across the alleyway to his own apartment. “I suppose I had better go and pack.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean said. He gulped hard, turning his face the other way.

 

Sam didn’t understand. Why was Dean staying? This was his _chance_! This was the call to adventure he’d been waiting for! What was holding him back?

 

Castiel’s eyes flashed to Sam’s, then away. In a solemn silence, he drifted to the window, pushed it open, and climbed out onto the fire escape. He hesitated again, drawing a breath as he looked to Dean – but Dean had gone, closing his bedroom door.

 

Castiel swallowed. He didn’t pay Sam any attention now. He turned away and climbed over to his apartment, through the already-open window.

 

Sam looked at the bag he’d packed for Dean. He scowled at it. Oh, what was the use? Was there any point hoping Dean would see sense?

 

Sam marched over to Dean’s room, holding the knapsack, all fired up and ready to start a fight. But his knuckles didn’t even touch the door before he stopped. He could hear Dean crying. Soft, helpless, gasping sobs. Muffled, like he didn’t want to be heard.

 

All the frustration drained out of Sam at once. Yeah, he wanted to live as an adult, in an apartment by himself. Yeah, he wanted Dean to take the leap and follow his dreams. But there had to be a good reason Dean decided to stay. Whatever the reason, it had to be more important than Dean’s own desires, more important than Sam’s, or Castiel’s. Sam didn’t understand, but he wasn’t sure it was the right time to ask. Dean didn’t like to be known to have complex emotions at the best of times, but the present was undoubtedly the worst of times. Sam didn’t want to kick him while he was down. That wasn’t going to make Dean want to get up.

 

So Sam turned back to the table, putting the knapsack down gently. His ears still rang with the sound of Dean’s heartbroken weeping. He wondered if the noise might haunt him. He couldn’t remember hearing Dean express grief like that before.

 

Sam sat at the table, holding his own hands, wondering what to do. He was usually full of plans and ideas, but tonight he was stuck. If the thought of never seeing his best friend again wasn’t enough motivation to get Dean to leave, what the hell was left? Sam surely had no hope of changing his mind.

 

In only a few minutes, Castiel returned from the parallel apartment. He wore his long tan trenchcoat, carried a suitcase over his forearm with his trumpet case in the same hand, and a smaller case hanging on his pinkie finger. With his other arm, he cradled his round fishbowl to his middle, water sloshing, goldfish swimming in flustered circles.

 

“Cas, you can’t take that,” Sam puffed, hurrying to relieve Castiel of his other luggage. “The trumpet, fine – but leave the fish behind.”

 

“I’m not leaving Mr. Fish behind, are you mad?” Castiel frowned. He stepped away from Sam’s reaching hand. “I may be leaving without Dean, but I’m not leaving without my fish. He’s all I have left.”

 

Sam wished his heart wasn’t so easy to break, but he couldn’t help it. He felt something clench, deep inside him, and it wouldn’t release. He watched Castiel set the bowl on the dining table and crouch down, smiling at it as he put his fingers to the glass. The fish swam to the edge and pecked at Castiel’s fingertips like a kiss. Castiel was weary and stressed and the hollows of his eyes were dark like bruises, but wrinkles pulled underneath as he smiled. That fish had to be his smallest source of pleasure – and like he’d said, it was the last remaining source. Sam couldn’t bear to argue with him.

 

This was a strange night. Sam felt he was not fully part of the goings-on – these were not his crimes, this was not his love affair, this was not his heartbreak – but at the time time, he was intensely involved. He empathised heavily with Dean’s loss before Castiel was even gone, and Sam felt like he ought to be able to change something. Fix something. Make it better. Just like Dean always managed to do, somehow.

 

But Castiel was ready to leave. He had all his possessions, and his mind was made up. He must have escape plans in place already; his bag had probably already been packed.

 

“Is Dean coming?” Castiel asked Sam. He sounded so hopeful that Dean had changed his mind.

 

Sam’s eyes moved to Dean’s door, then back to Castiel. He shook his head.

 

Castiel swallowed. He frowned, hard, and the expression aged him. He looked forty-five years old, all of a sudden.

 

“Tell him...” Castiel inhaled. He tilted his head, eyes drifting. He exhaled, shaking his head. “No. There’s nothing to say. He knows it all.”

 

“You won’t say goodbye?”

 

Castiel smiled, but it was a dull and lifeless motion. “No.”

 

He said nothing more. He took his suitcase, his trumpet, the small case, and his fishbowl, and he walked steadily to the front door. Sam went after him, going ahead – he slapped his hand over the door lock before Castiel could open it. “Why is he staying?” Sam demanded. “I know him better than anyone – and I can’t comprehend why he won’t go. In his place, I wouldn’t have hesitated.”

 

Castiel shrugged a shoulder. “He’s given a dozen reasons, all of them are valid. He isn’t ready. He wants to stay with you. He feels he has a duty to support his friends. He doesn’t want to be selfish; he doesn’t want to accept money; he’s afraid. Any of them could be the real reason. And it could be all of them at once. Or it might be none.”

 

“Is he in love with you?” Sam asked bluntly. There was no point being timid now.

 

Castiel stared. He gazed so deeply into Sam’s eyes that Sam didn’t even feel he was looking at _him_ , but something impossible, like his soul.

 

“Perhaps he isn’t,” Castiel said at last. He blinked, looking down. “It would explain a lot.”

 

Sam let Castiel brush him away from the door, his body unresisting. He felt lightheaded with shock. Questions tumbled about his head in gusts, all too fast to catch – and before he knew it, Castiel was out in the hallway.

 

Their eyes met through the crack of the closing door. Castiel looked like a different man. There was no joy left in him. All this time, Sam had been noticing how Castiel had changed Dean, set him free in some way – but he’d never realised how much Dean had given Cas.

 

Sam stared as the door clicked shut, and was all too aware he’d been looking into the callous, war-haunted eyes of Jimmy Novak, not Castiel.

 

Sam palmed his forehead, heart racing. He had to fix this. He had to.

 

He went straight to Dean’s bedroom door and opened it without knocking. Dean was perched at the edge of his bed, hunched forward. He lifted his head from his hands, eyes red, tears smeared on his cheeks. “Fuck off,” he said.

 

Sam sat down beside Dean. “I’m not going anywhere – unlike Cas. He’s _gone_ , Dean. Do you understand what that means? Do you realise what you just lost?”

 

“You think I don’t?” Dean snapped, fury in his eyes. “You think this ain’t killing me? My best friend—”

 

“And your lover,” Sam interjected. He stood firm when he saw Dean recoil from the word. “He loves you, Dean. I don’t think either of us can comprehend just how much.”

 

“Well, so what?” Dean said, standing up. He began to pace the tiny room, stepping on clothes and papers. “He doesn’t need me, Sam. He’s better off without me.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Dean scoffed, giving Sam a dry look as he stared down at him. “What do you think I mean? This whole time I thought he was hopeless. Wayward little lamb. Whatever he was when he became obsessed with elevators, or lost in Times Square. I thought he couldn’t talk to strangers, I thought he was afraid to go to new places, I thought he was incompatible with the whirlpool of endless _shit_ we live in!”

 

Dean’s breath began to deepen, and he expelled a quiet growl of despair. He sat heavily on his bed, head in his hands. A tear dripped from his face onto his foot. “Then I find out he’s better than I ever imagined.” Dean hesitated, glancing upward, shaking his head. “The more I think about it, the more impressive he is. Cas revealed his freakin’ tricks, Sam; there’s no magic. He’s just like us. He’s human and he’s wounded, he’s smart as hell. He took the hand he was dealt and he built a fucking _empire_ of cards. How are we meant to compare to that? How am _I_? What does he need me for? He’s fine without me. Forget fine – he’s _better off_ without me.”

 

“How can you say that?!” Sam asked, trying to be reassuring. “It’s not true, Dean.”

 

“It is true. Cas got caught because of what he did for me,” Dean stated. “He stole to save _me_ from a job _I_ hated. And that mistake caught up with him tonight. That’s what— That’s what made me realise I’m no good for him. If he didn’t care about me, none of this would’ve happened.”

 

“Getting caught was his mistake, not yours,” Sam insisted. “It’s his own fault for using the same pen for everything. And for writing an apology in the first place. Getting caught was inevitable.”

 

“Come to think of it, _you’re_ fine without me, too,” Dean carried on, as if Sam hadn’t spoken. “And my friends – I thought they needed me, but Cas made it pretty clear, they don’t need jack shit from me. They did fine without me, they’ll be fine when I’m gone. So why bother?” Dean’s voice lightened, as if he was realising as he spoke, “Nobody needs me. I’m worthless to everyone I care about.”

 

Sam hadn’t expected to understand the intimacies of Dean’s lovelorn heart, but he did now, because it wasn’t anything to do with Castiel at all. It was all about Dean. He was spiralling through negativity and self-doubt, bringing up things he hadn’t dared to consider aloud before. And understanding it hurt. It hurt because Sam couldn’t say a damn thing to comfort his brother, since anything could be harmful. Dean wasn’t needed, or he _was_ ; either way, Dean’s experiences had set him up to believe his worth hinged solely on the needs and desires of others.

 

He was more damaged than Sam had ever realised. It would take years of unlearning before Dean could look at himself and his relationships in a healthy way. Right now, there was nothing Sam could say to make Dean feel better.

 

So, instead, Sam decided to do what the Jaybird did: play on Dean’s fears in the gentlest way possible, and hope for a positive response.

 

“Whatever you believe,” Sam said, every word measured on his breath, “there’s one thing we’re both certain of.” He reached to touch Dean, gripping his knee. “Castiel loves you. I don’t know if you love him back...” No reaction beyond a blink; Sam pressed on, knowing Dean was listening, “But if you stay, you deny him the one thing he wanted. Don’t you see, Dean? Everything he did, he did for you. Whatever it is you see in him, it only exists because of how he feels about you. The Paper Jaybird exists, and thousands of people in this city are cared for _because_ _Castiel loves you_. He just wants to impress you, Dean. And if there’s one thing a criminal mastermind needs, it’s someone to impress. You’re his _raison d’être_. You’re his purpose. Don’t tell me that doesn’t sound like he needs you.”

 

Sam took a breath, and he squeezed Dean’s knee again. “Right now your jaybird is out there, flying the nest. Dean... come on. Don’t let him leave without you. Mistake or no mistake, he wants you with him. You know how much he’s done for you. Joining him is the least you could do in exchange.”

 

At first, Sam wasn’t convinced that he’d played the right card. Dean’s eyes scrunched up, dripping tears, and he curled forward, sniffing. His breath puffed from between swollen lips, and a moment later, he swallowed loudly. “No, it—” Dean struggled to speak. “I don’t owe him anything. I’m— He said I’m cherished... in exchange for nothin’. Or somethin’ mushy like that. If I go with him, we’re partners in crime. Equals.”

 

After a pause, Dean laughed, head down, sobbing.

 

“...You okay?” Sam asked.

 

Dean sniffed again. His eyes moved to meet Sam’s, and Sam saw how they were drawn narrow, gleaming with unshed tears. Dean pressed his lips together tightly, almost managing a sideways smile.

 

Sam nosed forward eagerly. “Well?”

 

Dean swallowed once more, Adam’s apple bobbing, stubbled skin pulling neatly along his jawline. “I, uh,” he mumbled. He lapped at his lips, making them shine. “Guess I sh-should do some packing.”

 

Sam smiled widely, flooding with relief. “Just get some clothes together, I’ve already gotten everything else.” He stood, squeezing Dean’s shoulder. “Be quick. You don’t want to lose him.”

 

Sam waited before leaving. He wanted to see if Dean would give any sign that he loved Castiel back, but Sam simply couldn’t tell. Despite his show of emotion, Dean still kept the most volatile of things close to his chest. Sam turned to leave the room when Dean reached for his day clothes.

 

After a few moments— “Sam?”

 

Sam paused, turning around.

 

Dean emerged from the room, doing up the buttons on his pants, waistcoat in hand. He looked fresh-faced all of a sudden, lit up from inside. He slipped the waistcoat on, fumbling the buttons. “I’m going after him,” Dean breathed. “Screw packing. I’m not letting him get on that train without me.”

 

Sam nodded. Dean swept past, wide-eyed and brimming with energy. He stepped into his shoes, hurrying to do the laces. He spun around twice, looking at the apartment, at its dark walls and big arched windows. Perhaps this was the last time he’d see the place, and he wanted to take it in.

 

Last of all, Dean’s eyes lighted on Sam’s. Dean gave a brave smile, swiping away the remainders of his tears with a fast hand.

 

“I’ll catch up,” Sam promised.

 

“Don’t forget my guitar,” Dean said. “I’d, uh... hate to imagine Cas playin’ his trumpet all by his lonesome.” He smiled – and it was a radiant, excited smile. At that moment, Sam was convinced that Dean loved Castiel back.

  
«··· ✧✦✧ ···»

 

 


	12. Promises, and A Walk in the Park

Dean started down the stairs at a walk. Cas couldn’t be too far ahead. No more than a mile. Maybe he’d turned back a few times, hesitant about leaving Dean. Half a mile, then.

 

But what if he got into a cab? At night, no traffic, he might be halfway to the station already. Dean began to trot down the stairs, taking them four per second.

 

Cas loved him. Cas _loved_ him. Being needed, it didn’t matter. Dean was cherished instead. He was cherished, for nothing, in exchange for nothing.

 

Dean shoved the front door open, storming straight down the alleyway, kicking the penny he’d thrown against Castiel’s window the other night. He turned into the main street before the penny even settled.

 

Cherished, for nothing.

 

The empty road ahead was wide and spread with silver, an artist’s rendition of moonlight. There were stars in the sky and the heat of summer choked Dean with its closeness. No Cas in sight. Dean had to keep running.

 

Everyone’s desires were important except Dean’s own – how could he have thought that?! He was a person too, wasn’t he? Even what Castiel’s fish wanted _mattered_. Even the smallest creatures had a purpose. Dean’s purpose could evolve. And it had. Yes, Dean still ached to help his friends, but there had to be ways to do that without crushing his own dreams.

 

At the first corner, Dean stumbled into a full sprint, heading southbound, towards the station. He was desperate to find Cas and, at the very least, apologise. He was sorry for his shortsightedness, firstly. Dean had been handed the means, motive and opportunity to make so many people’s dreams come true, and he had very nearly squandered it because he didn’t think he was _worth_ it? Did it even matter what Dean thought of himself? Castiel loved him. Castiel cherished him, for nothing. That had to have some sway.

 

Now Sam would be happy too. Perhaps he didn’t need Dean any more, but that was okay. He’d always wanted independence, whereas Dean always wanted Sam to depend. How had it taken Dean until now to see how fucked up that was? _Wanting_ someone to need him. Making choices just to make sure Sam still relied on him.

 

God, it was a good thing Dean was already running. Running, running. He wanted to get away from what he’d done. So many years like that, he didn’t understand how he never saw the wood for the trees. He’d been cruel to Sam without even realising it.

 

Dean’s heart pounded in his chest, sweat beaded on his forehead, in the palms of his hands. His shirt began to chafe under his arms, and his shoes began to loosen. He hadn’t tied the laces tight enough.

 

But he couldn’t stop. He’d run barefoot if he had to; he couldn’t let Castiel escape. He was the one person who recognised the darkness in Dean from the start, he’d been aware of how Dean withheld the truth, and still he cared for him. After five years, he never revealed Dean’s long-buried secret about his past. Castiel had seen Dean’s predicament before Dean did, and Castiel had _said_ , over and over, that Dean had the strength to pull away from codependency – though he’d never used that word. He’d been subtle. Gentle. Sweet. Perhaps too sweet.

 

 _Cherished, in exchange for nothing_.

 

Castiel loved Dean despite his failings and his faults, and the lies he’d told. Dean wished he were a better man, he wished he’d never hidden the truth. What was he running towards, now, if not another failed relationship? He wanted – needed – this one to last. He needed this one to be easy. He couldn’t ever lie to Castiel again, not about anything. Dean had to know himself before he spoke – or he’d give a hundred excuses before he landed on the truth by chance.

 

And he couldn’t let Castiel lie again. Not a white lie, not a story untold. They couldn’t go on the way they’d always done. Dean could never again ask for something beautiful instead of the truth. Maybe the truth might be ugly, but there were far more gruesome things in the world than honesty. Dean imagined a future where he felt no desire to lie or hide anything from Castiel, and Castiel would do the same. Those sorts of relationships ought not be caged within fairytales.

 

Dean wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready for Castiel to love him, but he had to allow it anyway. This was his only chance. This was his _only_ chance. Who else would love Dean the way Castiel did? Nobody. There was nobody. And Dean didn’t _want_ there to be anyone else.

 

He needed this to work.

 

And god _damn_ , he had to run faster. None of Dean’s prayers or personal revelations would be of any consequence unless he found the man he was chasing.

 

Dean turned a second corner at the end of the long road, and almost smashed Castiel’s fishbowl. All the other luggage went flying as Castiel grabbed for the bowl, tucking it safely against his belly, curled protectively over it. The fish swam in a fast, panicked circle, then calmed down. Castiel panted, checking his pet was unharmed before he turned to find Dean.

 

Dean had swung past, moving with his own momentum. But he staggered to a halt now, hands out to steady Castiel in place. Dean’s smile was shaking on his huffing breaths, heart eager.

 

“I— I couldn’t—” Dean panted, stepping back once, then again. He trembled, folding forward over his thighs, hands on his knees. “Cas...”

 

“Neither could I,” Castiel confessed. His eyes were serene and shining as Dean met his gaze. “I couldn’t leave without you. I was on my way back for you.”

 

Dean licked his lips, tasting blood at the back of his throat. “I love you,” he rasped, straightening up. “I want— I want to spend my life with you. I’m coming with you.”

 

Castiel looked surprised for a moment. And then another moment.

 

And then he seemed to come alive again, smiling. He smiled so wide his teeth showed, and his eyes crinkled deeply. He was clearly delighted – Dean had never seen him that happy. But he couldn’t bask in the sight; he still had things to say.

 

“I’m sorry,” Dean expelled. “Half of everythin’ that comes outta my mouth, Cas – it’s bullshit. You gotta— You gotta understand that.” Dean dragged a hand over his mouth, furiously wiping away sweat. “I think I understand things but I don’t. I think I don’t want things but I do. I think I don’t deserve good things, Cas, because I’m a shitty excuse for a human being – and I’m hearing it now, and the worst thing is that _I believe it_. I don’t see what you see in me. Maybe I never will. But I want to see it, Cas. I— I wanna— I wanna love what you love. And I think... I think you can show me. I need you to show me. You’re the only one who can.”

 

“Dean, no,” Castiel said. He stepped close to Dean, and with his free hand, he cupped Dean’s cheek. Dean leaned into the touch. “You don’t need me, Dean. But... I think you would be happier with me. As I would be happier with you.” Castiel’s eyes sparkled, bright with emotion. He stroked Dean’s cheek with a thumb. “Someday you’ll see the good in yourself. It’s there, I promise you. Someday you’ll understand why I want to be with you.”

 

Dean managed a shaky, nervous smile. He felt incredible, burning with energy, all of which he channelled into his touch, fingers locking delicately between Castiel’s. He kissed Castiel’s inner wrist, exhaling heavily against his skin. “Just promise me one thing,” Dean panted. “No more beautiful lies, Cas. No more. Not ever. Stories are stories, but between you and me—”

 

Castiel nodded. “Only the truth.”

 

Their gaze remained steady, and Castiel’s smile wouldn’t fade. His eyes were as bright as the moon itself.

 

Something happened in that moment. Things fell into place. For the first time in years, Dean felt like his life was about to get a whole lot better.

 

He submitted to instinct, leaning in for a kiss. Their lips met in a desperate push of skin to stubble, both Dean’s hands pulling Castiel’s collar – but then Dean took a gulp of air, panic flickering through him.

 

Castiel responded without hesitation. His free hand gripped Dean’s hard, and their eyes met. All of Castiel’s attention was devoted to Dean. “What’s wrong?” he asked him.

 

“This is it,” Dean said, in a shaky voice. “World trip. Goodbye New York. Home. Job. Friends.”

 

Castiel nodded. “And hello freedom.” When Dean shut his eyes, panicking again, Castiel squeezed his hands tighter. “Look at me, Dean.”

 

Dean met his eyes again.

 

Castiel only had one thing to say. “Tell me what you need.”

 

«··· ✧✦✧ ···»

 

 

 

Darkness flourished between the trees. The night’s shade could easily have made Central Park into a void of creeping branches and winding, strangled footpaths where hellions lurked, ready to pounce. But every black lamp was burning, and the heat of summer hushed through the thick boughs of the sycamores. Yellow lights lifted the darkness until it was painted with muted, gorgeous colours, all around.

 

Dean walked beside his brother and his best friend. In his mind, he marched through a recovering battlefield, flanked by trusted guards. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes for a few steps. He heard the faraway laugh of a woman, and a cheer of a group party, and the ongoing rush of traffic on the parallel roads.

 

Dean’s shoulders were weighed down by his guitar on a strap, Sam’s old knapsack, a small case, and a bag for Castiel’s things. Castiel couldn’t carry his own luggage, as he was carrying his fishbowl, with the fish still swimming inside. There was no talking him out of that. Dean and Sam had both tried; it was hopeless. He loved that damn fish too much.

 

“Which way now?” Sam asked Dean, as they reached a forked turning.

 

One way was shady. The other way was lit brightly.

 

Dean gulped. “This way,” he whispered. He walked into the darkness.

 

After a second, Sam and Castiel followed him.

 

The Ramble was a complicated system of footpaths within the heart of Central Park. It could be a beautiful place to while away a sunny afternoon, or take a friend for a picnic. However, there was a time Dean made use of its dense woodland to go about his business. No eyes would see a man and his client if they lay amongst fallen leaves in the autumn, or pressed up against a budding tree in the spring. For years, the Ramble served as a perfect haunt for Dean. Every day and night he’d be back, waiting for someone to come along who was interested in buying what he had to sell.

 

 _You lookin’ my way?_ he’d ask, on the very edge of flirtatious. Usually the answer was yes. People didn’t come this way unless they were looking.

 

But there were some nights when it was too dark, when too few lamps were lit, when there were not enough eyes peering into the shadows, and there was no-one around to hear a muffled cry for help.

 

Dean hadn’t been back to Central Park in five years.

 

He needed to do this. If not tonight, there was no telling if he’d ever come back.

 

Dean was not the sort of man who let fear conquer him forever. He might let it craze him for a while, but sooner or later, he’d destroy the resentment inside him, the terror, the part of him that wanted to flinch back into the light. That was not to say he expected to be healed by a casual stroll through the park at two in the morning, but he knew he would feel braver, come tomorrow.

 

Sam didn’t know why they were here, not really. He believed the pretence Dean provided: he thought they were here to bid farewell to Dean’s friends. Which they were. But they were also here so Dean could finally let go.

 

Dean looked to his right and saw Castiel. Castiel understood. Dean brushed closer, taking comfort from his presence.

 

This wasn’t a place of fear, not for Dean. Not any more.

 

Through the trees, Dean saw a flickering light, which became a steady collection of lights, which became a brilliant, coherent picture. It was the New York City skyline, visible on the other side of the lake. The lake moved gently in the dark, rippling with a faint breeze. Deepest green and the prettiest gold shimmered in waves upon its surface, casting a spell of serenity over Dean. He drew a full breath, in love with the stale smell of the water. He’d forgotten how much he adored this place.

 

Beside the lake was a pavilion. It was an ornate rectangle with a slate roof, made for shade and shelter. Inside its cast-iron fencing were three lantern lights: the silhouettes of three women waited, talking amongst themselves.

 

“You ready?” Sam asked, holding out a hand to take some of Dean’s luggage. Sam was already weighed down, but he accepted the guitar and extra bags Dean handed over.

 

Dean wore a pleased smile as he hopped up the step into the pavilion. “Hey,” he said softly, not wanting to shatter the quietness.

 

“Hi,” Charlie replied, reaching to embrace Dean. They clasped each other tightly, Charlie’s face buried in Dean’s shoulder, Dean’s face nestled in Charlie’s hair. Dean shut his eyes.

 

“Sorry to drag you outta bed,” Dean said, eventually pulling back. “This was kind of a now-or-never deal.”

 

“Inspector Novak,” Cassie said, nodding at Castiel. She smiled with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Jaybird, rather. Or should I call you Trumpet Boy?”

 

Castiel chuckled, ducking his head. “Castiel is fine.” He then squinted at Cassie, recognising her face. His eyebrows rose in surprise. “It was you! I saw you last night, in the courtyard. I thought I recognised you. I—I’m sorry. I left without speaking to you...”

 

Cassie pressed her lips together firmly, in a dull near-smile. Just like that, she acknowledged what Castiel said, expressed her resentment, but showed her understanding of why he left. Castiel couldn’t comprehend all of those nuances, so glanced towards Dean with a touch of panic in his eyes, hoping for help. Dean nodded and smiled, assuring him everything was okay. Castiel exhaled in relief, but still lowered his eyes, ashamed that he’d ignored Cassie to protect Novak’s image. Dean reached to pat his arm.

 

“I ain’t happy about this,” Billie said. She sat on a bench at the back of the pavilion, arms folded. Her hair was a giant mess, her eyes were puffy, and she glared at Dean, then Castiel, then Dean again. “First you run off home in the middle of your work shift, now I find out you’re eloping with your pretty-boy neighbour to go God-knows-where. The hell am I meant to do for entertainment now?”

 

Dean smiled fondly. “I’ll miss you too, Billie. I’ll send you a postcard, how ‘bout that.”

 

“Unless you can make your postcard do a magic trick, I ain’t interested.”

 

Dean’s smile became a little sadder, but he understood.

 

“What’s with the fish?” Charlie asked, raising an eyebrow at Castiel.

 

“I’m not leaving without Mr. Fish,” Castiel said, firmly.

 

“Oh, don’t get him started,” Sam uttered, waving a dismissive hand. He turned the same hand to check his wristwatch. “Forty-five minutes until the train leaves for Chicago. Better make this quick.”

 

Castiel took a breath. “I’d like to speak to you, Ms. Robinson, if you wouldn’t mind. I suppose I owe you an interview.”

 

“Might just take you up on that,” Cassie agreed. She pulled out a notebook and a pen from seemingly nowhere.

 

Dean sighed, rubbing his forehead. “All right. Cas... go sit down, talk to Cassie. I gotta share a few words with Charlie here.” When Castiel made his way to Cassie, Dean beckoned to Charlie, leading her to the empty side of the pavilion, overlooking the lake.

 

Lamplight shone on Dean’s face; he felt the golden sheen on his eyelashes. He felt the warmth of a tear, he saw its brightness, blinding. And then he saw darkness again. He looked down and saw his teardrop splashed on the pavilion’s railing, between his gripping fists.

 

Charlie’s hand pressed between Dean’s shoulder blades. “It was brave of you to come back.”

 

“Leaving’s worse,” Dean muttered, letting another tear skim his cheek. He lapped at his lips, turning his face away. “I, uh, wanted to give you somethin’. Parting gift, or whatever.”

 

“Oh?” Charlie’s hand slid from Dean’s back; Dean moved to show her the smallest suitcase he’d brought along.

 

“Here,” Dean said, handing over the case. “It’s only a fraction of what me ‘n Cas are taking with us, but...” He opened up the case, showing Charlie the money inside. “Like you said the other day: there’s people in New York you want to help. Figured we could give you a head start.”

 

“Dean...” Charlie’s voice cracked, her eyes wide and gleaming as she stared at Dean. A tiny smile creased the corner of her mouth, and she pushed the sentiment down. “What old bat did you steal this from, huh?”

 

Dean smirked. “A bigheaded French Ambassador, according to Cas. There’s three hundred dollars here, give or take.”

 

Charlie gripped Dean’s bicep, fingers wrinkling his shirtsleeve. “Thank you,” she said. She kissed Dean’s shoulder, and Dean beamed, resting his cheek against the crown of her bed-tousled hair.

 

After a minute of peaceful silence, squashed in a close embrace, Charlie took a breath to speak. “This pavilion,” she started, “it’s called the Ladies’ Pavilion. Used to a be a cottage in this spot. My mom used to skate on this lake in winter, right here. She’d come at the weekend, sit her ass down, shuck up her bustle and change her boots to skates. They had a cottage just so the ladies wouldn’t be showing off their delicate ankles in front of the gentlemen.”

 

Dean snorted, and Charlie grinned, straightening up. “Now look,” Charlie said, lifting one leg. “Bare arms. Bare legs, right up to the thighs. Bathing suits with no leg cover at all. Nobody gives a shit about bare ankles. Fifteen, twenty years – that’s all it took. Things change fast, you know? In ways people never dared to imagine, or predict.”

 

“Crazy, huh.”

 

“Not just crazy. Exciting. Imagine what New York could become in another thirty years’ time. Forty, even. Within our lifetimes, Dean, _everything_ could be different. I’m talking more than just clothes. Maybe the things you and I have had to hide all our lives won’t need to be hidden. Maybe you could even be open about what you and Cas have.”

 

“Pff,” Dean scoffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it. Right now all I can imagine is Cas shoved under lock and key. Unless we high-tail it outta here, that’s the only thing that’s becoming a reality anytime soon.”

 

Dean looked back over his shoulder. By the glow of the kerosene lanterns, he saw Billie and Sam engaged in conversation, luggage crumpled at Sam’s feet like a litter of tired puppies. At the other end of the bench, Cassie and Castiel had become entirely absorbed by their discussion. They spoke slowly and deliberately, and then Castiel wrote a few words on some notepaper, using his own pen.

 

“How’re you doing?” Dean asked, approaching Castiel. “And for that matter, _what_ are you doing?”

 

“This is the Paper Jaybird’s new method of communication,” Castiel said.

 

Dean leaned back on the barrier between shelter and shrubbery, watching Castiel write another sentence in his loopy, elegant handwriting. “You’re not changing your writing?”

 

“The secret’s out,” Castiel shrugged. “Inspector Jimmy Novak is the Paper Jaybird, all the cops know. By the time this morning’s newspaper goes to print, all of New York will know. It doesn’t matter any more.”

 

“Turns out Trumpet Boy had the story I’ve been looking for,” Cassie said. “This whole scandal has a huge potential for narrative power _and_ public recognition all in one. When you pick a man, Dean, hell, you really know how to pick them, don’t you?” She spoke calmly, and she smiled.

 

Dean loved seeing Cassie gentle again. He’d missed the Cassie Robinson who knew she was in control. Over time, through toil, that part of her had been stripped back, leaving a frantic, impatient animal, near-feral. She’d cornered any story that scampered her way, regardless of who it might lash out and hurt. But now, certainity made all the difference.

 

“I can take this letter to print,” Cassie explained to Dean, watching Castiel write. “I have an hour or two to claim the front page – I can do it. I’ll write a piece on how the Jaybird chose me to represent him, and slipped this note under my door in the middle of the night.”

 

“The Jaybird is going abroad,” Castiel said, glancing up at Dean with a happy smile. “That ought to get people talking. And it’ll give Cassie’s article an edge over all the police reports: not only does she know the Jaybird’s identity, but she knows where he’s going next.”

 

Cassie nodded. “I’ll write about what the Jaybird’s absence means for New York. There’s no question of whether the editors will want my essay.”

 

“Won’t they try and edit you out of it?” Charlie said quietly, hanging at Dean’s side. “Editors have done that before. They’ll take her name away, or change her article so much there’s nothing left of her voice.”

 

Castiel harrumphed. “That won’t happen if I have any say it it. Miss Robinson is the Paper Jaybird’s _official_ correspondent,” he said proudly. “She shall receive periodical letters signed by the Jaybird, from all over the world. I’m making it very clear, here: Cassie Robinson, and _only_ Cassie Robinson – a woman of great talent, and of mixed descent – will be New York’s solitary insight into the Jaybird’s actions. If the public wants to read future articles about their favourite jewel thief, they must keep Miss Robinson safe, and the press must continue publishing her work.”

 

“I thought you were against accepting help,” Dean remarked to Cassie.

 

“He’s not writing the article _for_ me, he’s just giving me the headline,” Cassie replied.

 

Dean fidgeted. “But the way this is going, it’s gonna look like you and the Jaybird are in cahoots.”

 

Cassie recognised Dean’s point, and she looked worriedly towards Castiel.

 

“There are people who will keep you safe,” Castiel said quietly. “Patrolwomen Jody Mills and Donna Hanscum... I know them, through Novak’s work, and through the Jaybird’s exploits. I trust them both. They’re kindhearted people and good officers. They’ll help any woman who asks for it. If anyone dares to threaten you, Cassie, they’re on your side.” Castiel bent his head, signing his letter. He folded it once and handed it to Cassie. “Soon, your name as a reporter will be recognised, and you won’t need to rely on my letters to get your work published. A foot in the door, that’s all this is. A step up.”

 

Cassie smiled. Castiel bowed his head, holding her eye, accepting her unspoken gratitude.

 

“You don’t have long left,” Sam interjected, checking his watch again. “If you miss this train you’ll be waiting another hour. The sun will be up, and there’ll be more people.”

 

Castiel sighed. He reached for his fishbowl, and stood up. “We’d better go, then.”

 

Dean felt his insides clench. He desperately didn’t want to leave his friends...

 

His eyes moved to Charlie, holding her case of money, then to Cassie, re-reading her precious letter. They each had the key to a new life. But Dean’s attention moved to Billie, and his heart sank. What could he give her? All she wanted was for Dean to stay.

 

Dean moved to Billie’s side, and Sam stood, edging away so Dean could take his seat. The group drifted off to watch the lake, leaving Dean and Billie in a private bubble of golden lamplight. Insects moved in frenetic orbits around the lantern, bouncing off the glass, stinging themselves on the hot wire crossing its central sphere.

 

Dean swallowed, then sighed. Billie was silent.

 

“I ain’t sorry,” Dean said, after a while. He held his own hands, bent forward with his arms resting on his thighs. “I’m not gonna apologise for leaving.”

 

“Hm,” Billie said.

 

“Maybe some other magician will come along,” Dean said, shrugging. “They were just silly tricks, Billie. I was just a shoe-shiner. I don’t sweep a floor better than anyone else could.”

 

“It wasn’t the job, Winchester,” Billie chided. “You know it ain’t the magic tricks I’mma miss.”

 

Dean stared at the wooden planks running along the floor. “Yeah,” he said, feeling tightness in his smile.

 

“You owe me a bottle of wine.”

 

“You hold me to that, okay?” Dean turned to look at Billie’s face in profile, admiring her downturned nose and thick lips. “Someday I’ll come back. I’ll see New York again. And we’ll drink the best wine money can buy.”

 

They met each other’s eyes, and they shared a friendly warmth that burned in Dean’s chest, sad and fierce and hopeful.

 

“Alright,” Billie agreed, shutting her eyes. “It better be a fuckin’ good bottle of wine, though.”

 

Dean grinned. His grin faded, and he stared at nothing for a moment. Then he reached into the breast pocket of his waistcoat, and he pulled out his dog-eared playing cards in their battered, grubby box. “You wanna know how I did my tricks?” he asked. He offered Billie the box.

 

Billie took the deck from Dean, turning it over in her hands. She considered the offer.

 

Dean thought of Castiel, offering the truth. _Do you want the truth, or something beautiful?_

 

Dean had always said no. Castiel had since come to be the love of Dean’s life, and Dean wanted everlasting mystery. _Tell me something beautiful,_ he’d say. He wanted questions unanswered, he wanted surprises. But if Castiel preferred to leave nothing to Dean’s imagination, for the sake of honesty, Dean was fine with that too. But Castiel was Dean’s lover. Billie was a friend. Somehow, that made all the difference. Billie only ever wanted the truth.

 

“Braille,” Billie said, raising her eyebrows. Under the pad of her thumb, she finally satisfied her curiosity. “So that’s all it is. Every card is dented with Braille. That’s how you find your cards.”

 

“Keep those if you want,” Dean offered. “I got a dozen packs where that came from. Not to mention the fancy gold one. I’m set for life.”

 

Billie turned the cards again, considering handing the deck back. But, when she slid the cards into the box and latched it closed, she kept ahold of it.

 

Dean nodded, touching Billie’s arm. “Don’t let me forget about that wine.”

 

They stood. Billie stood on tiptoes to hug Dean, both arms tight around his head. Dean held her waist and squeezed, swaying in place.

 

When they pulled back, Dean looked to the side, and saw everyone else was ready to go. Castiel waited with his fishbowl; Sam stood draped with bags and musical instruments like a patient mule. Charlie clutched her case of money to her chest, while Cassie was already busy scrawling out an article, a notepad open on her thighs.

 

This was goodbye, then. Dean filled his lungs. The air he inhaled was flavoured with a stagnant past, and a cool, bittersweet flood came along with the present, but when Dean breathed out, he only tasted the future. And, to him, it tasted sweet.

  
«··· ✧✦✧ ···»


	13. Two to Chicago, One Way

Grand Central Terminal certainly was _grand_. Though urgency hurried Castiel’s footsteps, he couldn’t help but slow down to admire the great ceiling, painted with God’s-eye-view of the night sky. Dean and Sam noticed how Castiel was absorbed by the sight, and they went ahead without him to buy two tickets.

 

The terminal was practically empty, as it was not yet three o’clock in the morning. A clip-clop of shoes echoed faintly around the marble concourse, and Castiel grew dizzy, spinning to look at everything, bombarded by overheard whispers and clanks and tinkering noises. He’d been here before, but never when it wasn’t horrifically crowded.

 

Castiel sat on a bench. He stared into the depths of his fishbowl, watching his fish swim in a figure of eight. Castiel sighed. “After tonight, the world is going to be a lot bigger than a train station, Mr. Fish,” he said gently. “You’re so small. I wonder if the whole world might be too much for you. It’s going to be a lot for me, definitely...”

 

Castiel checked over his shoulder, and saw the brothers at a ticket booth. Dean was pulling money from his pocket to pay. It excited Castiel that they were so close to leaving, but Lord, was he scared as well.

 

Castiel slid a shoe along the marble, reaching to touch the case of his trumpet. Even if he could take nothing else besides his fish, he’d take his trumpet. Clothes and books and money barely mattered to him, not compared to having Dean beside him, music to play, and a fish to take care of. They could ride as stowaways for all he cared; he just wanted to go.

 

Movement swirled all around. Castiel observed as the station gradually filled with vibrancy, clatters, voices and shoes and an ongoing echo of a thousand things, none of them distinct. People were arriving to catch the first train of the day. Was anyone else about to embark on the journey of a lifetime? There was no way to know.

 

Through the shifting crowds, Castiel thought he saw a figure watching him. It was no more than a shadow; the figure was already gone. Though he squinted, and his eyes skipped around, searching for someone looking back, he saw nothing. Only a hundred other people, in the same trilbies and long coats as the mysterious shadow wore.

 

Paranoia. That was all.

 

Paranoia.

 

After a while, Dean and Sam returned to Castiel with their tickets. With an encouraging tip of his head, Dean summoned Castiel to his side.

 

Taking a deep breath for strength, Castiel followed.

 

Sam led Dean and Castiel through the terminal, along a wide, blank corridor, then out onto their designated platform. It was brightly lit, tiled with white rectangles, and the smell of warm machine oil hung heavy in the air. A hot breeze coasted through the subway tunnels, pulling Castiel’s hair and coat. Less than fifty other people stood on the platform, some behind the pillars, all facing the lowered channel ahead. More people entered every second.

 

The trio moved to wait with their backs to a pillar, where they could rest their heavy bags.

 

They were quiet. What was there to say? Goodbyes would seem premature. They weren’t going just yet.

 

Castiel hugged his fishbowl to him, watching his small orange friend swim between plants. Mr. Fish was in his own world. He didn’t care about the station. He didn’t care about leaving. All he pined for was food.

 

Freedom for a goldfish was a pond, not a different view through the glass.

 

Castiel looked up. A sense of calm had come over him, as it often did when he watched his fish. But this time it felt different. He felt enlivened, but all thoughts had gone quiet inside.

 

He looked to his left, where Dean stood. Castiel had something to say. However, the fumes of dusty, hot coal blew through the tunnel, and a gust carried away his first whisper. No, this was not the time to speak.

 

Dean had turned his head to see Sam, and they gazed at each other for a while. There were no words. Everything had been said. A small smile; a brave reply. A bowed head. Sam went on gazing, taking in the sight of his dear brother. They might not see each other for a very long time.

 

Castiel felt someone watching his back.

 

He didn’t turn. He knew they were there. Looking would only reveal his awareness. But he felt caught in a pinpointed light; an ant under a magnifying glass.

 

This wasn’t paranoia. He had every reason to be wary: all of New York was looking for him. In a way, it didn’t matter who was watching him; it could’ve been everyone, or no-one. But the danger was always real. Such was the life he led.

 

The priority was to get Dean and himself out of New York. They had to be safe. Everything else was less important. The fish and the trumpet, they were loved, but they were not vital.

 

Castiel could feel the moment approaching when everything would change. The train wasn’t here yet, but in his experience, a perfect moment to act would not always coincide with the perfect means. Sometimes plans were messy and impulsive. But at least they were plans. He had to think fast.

 

This time, his whisper broke from his lips in near-silence, but it was heard. “Sam,” he said.

 

Sam turned to listen. Dean waited.

 

“I imagine...” Castiel started, feeling his voice break, “I imagine a world trip... may prove overwhelming for a little goldfish. Airports... airplanes. Bumpy rides. He lives in a glass bowl. I couldn’t take him with me, he wouldn’t be safe.”

 

The brothers gave Castiel the same soft-eyed expression. Sam offered a smile.

 

Castiel sensed a crowd behind him on the platform, waiting for him to make a sudden move. He was nothing but a hare, caught in full view of a wolf pack, and he felt himself tremble. “Take him, Sam,” Castiel said, blinking back tears. “Look after him, won’t you?”

 

Dean took the fishbowl and handed it to Sam.

 

“I will,” Sam promised. “I’ll get him a miniature castle for his bowl. And a bigger aquarium.”

 

Castiel smiled, chin down to the knot of his tie. “He’d like that.” Hesitating, Castiel met Sam’s eyes. “There’s a book in my apartment about what to feed him. It’s not as easy as you might think.”

 

“It’ll be okay,” Dean whispered, reaching over to rub his thumb back and forth over Castiel’s hand. “Sam knows how to feed a thing or two. As my final act as Sammy’s parent, I think I can vouch he’s ready for a goldfish.”

 

Castiel turned his hand and took a firm hold of Dean’s. The contact was hidden by the pillar behind Dean, but Castiel was all too aware his back was entirely exposed. He swallowed. “Dean,” he said lowly, “I need you to listen to me very carefully. Pass me the case of money. Yes, now...” He took it into his free hand. “Good. Thank you. And put the bag with your essentials on your back.”

 

Dean did as he was told, a questioning look in his eyes the whole time.

 

“Leave the rest of your luggage,” Castiel said. “When I say ‘go’, we’re going to jump onto the tracks and run.”

 

“Through the tunnels? Why?”

 

“We’re not alone.” Castiel resisted the urge to look behind him. He felt multiple presences looming. Getting closer. “Sam – thank you. For everything. Dean...”

 

Dean shot Castiel an anxious look. He sensed the need for urgency though, and wasted no time in turning to Sam and enveloping him in a hug. They squeezed tight, Sam’s forehead down on Dean’s shoulder, Dean’s cheek against Sam’s neck.

 

“Be good, little brother.”

 

“Stay safe.” Sam gripped the back of Dean’s neck, then released him.

 

With tears in his eyes, Dean looked to Castiel... and then looked beyond. His eyes widened, his mouth twitching in surprise.

 

Too late. Castiel felt a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Leaving without saying goodbye, sir?” asked a familiar voice.

 

Castiel shut his eyes. He smiled gently, though his face was tight with tension. “I thought it might be easier on both of us,” he admitted. He looked over his shoulder at last, peering into the face of his Lieutenant. Garth was dressed in a long coat and a trilby hat; the mysterious figure had revealed himself. Behind Garth, patrolwomen Donna Hanscum and Jody Mills waited, both in uniform, stern expressions on their faces.

 

“We have this terminal surrounded, Novak,” Garth said forcefully, one hand on the pistol tucked into his belt. “You can’t run.”

 

Castiel’s eyes moved from Garth to the women behind him, and he shook his head. “You’re lying.”

 

“I’m not,” Garth piped. “There’s coppers swarming the terminal as we speak! Cars outside! You won’t get away with this, sir! I know who you are. I know what you’ve done.”

 

Castiel hummed a laugh, looking to Dean to share his amusement. Dean didn’t understand the joke – in fact, he looked rather sweaty – but he huffed out a small “heh” anyway.

 

“Garth,” Castiel said fondly, “what are you doing here? Why did you come? Don’t tell me your superiors sent you to arrest me. You know as well as I do: the powers-that-be would never think of sending women to capture a high-profile jewel thief. Not to mention the Lieutenant who, in any outsider’s view, could easily have aided and abetted Novak in his crimes. There’s nobody here but you three. You haven’t even alerted station security, have you?”

 

Garth, Donna and Jody all exchanged glances. They were caught out.

 

“This was our one chance to do some real policework,” Donna said, shrugging. “Guess we blew it, eh?”

 

“No,” Castiel shook his head. “No, you’re doing fine. All you have to tell the other officers is that I outwitted you, outran you, got on the train before you arrived. Or, since there’s people watching, maybe we fight. Dean and I get away. Make a show of it. Then your story matches the witnesses’ stories.”

 

“What makes you think we _want_ you to get away?” Donna asked, frowning. “I found the Jaybird’s dusty ol’ calling card, Novak. The handwriting matches yours. We’re here to take you down, pal. You’re pinched.”

 

Castiel’s eyes moved to Jody. “Officer Mills? Are you here to arrest me too?”

 

Jody gripped her belt. “Wouldn’t make a good officer if I didn’t.”

 

Castiel tilted his head and stared at Jody, imagining he was staring into her soul. Jody immediately became uneasy. Not many people could withstand that look.

 

“You’ve helped me a lot in the past,” Castiel said gently. He straightened up and nodded once, as if he was forgiving her. “If our previous co-operation must ultimately end in the Jaybird’s demise, so be it. You have your job to do. A reputation to uphold. I understand.”

 

Jody only looked more uncomfortable, on the verge of breaking.

 

“Jodes,” Donna said softly. “What does he mean, ‘co-operation’?”

 

There it was.

 

Jody shut her eyes, shoulders sinking down an inch. “It’s nothing. I’ll tell you later.”

 

“Oh no you won’t, missy. You explain yourself, right now.”

 

Jody sighed. “All it is— Look. You know how the Women’s Bureau is so dangerously underfunded. We _rely_ on donations.” Her gaze darted to meet Donna’s. “Who cares where the dough comes from? I make sure the money goes through, but I— I keep the name ‘Jaybird’ out of the records.”

 

Donna looked distraught. “You’re on his side? You’re in bed with a criminal!”

 

“No— No!” Jody looked panicked; all her attention was on Donna now. “Look, the Women’s Bureau is nothing but a joke,” Jody lamented. “ _We’re_ a joke, Donna. People are desperate to find reasons to shut us down. If I don’t have a job, who feeds my kid? Who pays the rent? I was _born_ to work in law enforcement. But nobody believes that except you and me.”

 

“So what?” Donna demanded.

 

“The Paper Jaybird,” Jody insisted, “We would be shut down if it weren’t for him. Those donations keep our department running – and hell, I’m not complaining. Are you? The longer we keep trucking, the more chances we have to show the big guys that women can make perfectly good officers.”

 

Donna’s expression finally began to soften, and Jody’s eyes lowered. “But... to be fair,” Jody added, “when I started down this rabbit hole, I didn’t realise we’d become putty in the hands of another suit-and-tie. I assumed the Jaybird was a woman. Boy, was I wrong.”

 

“No, you weren’t wrong,” Castiel assured Jody.

 

Jody looked Castiel’s face up and down, perplexed. “But...”

 

“The Jaybird is a concept, not a person,” Castiel smiled. “He, she – it doesn’t matter what you call her. The Jaybird belongs to you. She’s whatever _you_ want her to be.” Castiel lowered his eyes, shy of Jody’s gaze. Perhaps an admission that he viewed himself as genderless would be too bold to reveal. “I— I never meant for things to happen this way, but they did. Like you said, the Jaybird’s donations are the biggest source of income for the Women’s Bureau. It’s terrible that prejudice forces that kind of irony – crimesolving funded by crime – but what you do, the image you represent, it’s so _important_. You pave the way for everyone who isn’t a man. You are the first, but by no means will you be the last.”

 

The women listened. Castiel didn’t miss the way they both stood up a little straighter.

 

Spurred on by the fact everyone was paying attention, Castiel went on to declare, “Through incident, the Paper Jaybird became a voice for the downtrodden and the overlooked. Her voice sings for only you.” Castiel met the eyes of the people before him, in turn. “She steals for you, Jody Mills. And for you, Donna. And, Garth – you too. And thousands of others, all of them hungry or alone or abused. She’ll keep doing what she does until you don’t need her any more, when you find your own voice, when you can speak freely in a world of people who always shout over you.”

 

Castiel looked at Dean, who had come over all dewy-eyed and quiet.

 

“People like me,” Dean uttered, his voice hoarse. “The Jaybird sings for me?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel replied.

 

“And Cassie Robinson?”

 

Castiel smiled. “I think Cassie’s having a Harlem Renaissance of her own. She won’t need the Jaybird for long.”

 

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” Jody said, speaking to Castiel. “As inspiring as all that sounds, I gotta pull you off your soap-box. The world isn’t all rainbows and sunshine. We’re cops and you’re a robber, and that makes you the bad guy here. We know you’re the Jaybird, and we can’t just keep _quiet_ about it. I never became a cop just to get buried under corruption, however well-intentioned it is. A good thief is still a thief.” Jody sighed. “And if I go down for having helped you... so be it.”

 

“Jody, _no_ ,” Donna breathed. “What kind of example does that set, huh, if fifty percent of all lady cops are arrested for taking dirty money?”

 

“What other option is there?” Jody asked, shrugging in defeat. “The truth will out.”

 

“You could always let Novak ride,” Dean said to Jody. He touched Castiel’s hand gently. Castiel glanced his way, and was warmed from within: Dean seemed alive with excitement. “If Novak escapes quietly, nobody ever needs to know you ladies were involved. Same goes for you, Lieutenant. Let us leave, and nobody will find out you tried to arrest the Jaybird without notifying your superiors first.”

 

“But people can see us,” Fitzgerald said.

 

“Look around you – these people are zombies,” Dean scoffed. “Nobody sees anything on a crowded train platform at three in the morning.” Dean grinned, full of charm and confidence. “And listen. Newspapers go to print this morning, with Cassie Robinson’s article and a letter from the Jaybird. I can see the headline already: Novak mysteriously vanishes, new evidence discovered by officer Donna Hanscum.” Dean’s eyes shifted to meet Jody’s. “You’ll find Cassie at the Ladies’ Pavilion, in Central Park. Hurry, and you’ll catch her before she leaves to meet the press. I think you could all help each other out.”

 

Emboldened by Dean’s suggestion, Castiel closed his eyes for a moment, smiled, then looked back at Donna and said, “As soon as the next train arrives, Novak is going to get on, and he won’t look back. But he will remember. He’ll think of three brave officers who rose above condemnation, instead looking at the bigger picture. Think of all the people who benefit from what I do. The Jaybird is greater than all of us – far more important – and I _know_ you know it. You let Dean and I go free today and you will have done the more honourable thing.”

 

“We won’t stop chasing you,” Garth said. “The whole world will know your face and your name.”

 

“Good thing I have more than one of each, then,” Castiel smirked. This time Dean understood the joke; his freckles pulled around his smiling eyes.

 

The train was coming. A distant tremble rolled beneath the ground; a rhythmic _hiss, hiss, hiss_ grew to a chug.

 

Soon Castiel’s smirk faded, and he sighed, looking at the three officers in turn. They all seemed humbled, and they wore the same expression: defeated, but hopeful. “Thank you,” Castiel said to them. “All of you. Thank you, dearly, my friends.”

 

Not one of them dared say aloud that they had decided to let Novak escape, but it was all over their faces. They were good people. Like Castiel, Dean, Sam, and all of Dean’s friends, they occasionally thought themselves outside the law. Laws served to protect, but not to protect _them_. Rules were in place to create order, but often, rules only worked to keep certain people subservient. These three? They knew what it felt like to be small. And they knew what it felt like to be given something to empower them, making them greater than they ever thought they could be. For Jody, it was a sense of leadership, and the ability to provide for her family. For Donna, it was the act of doing what other officers claimed she wasn’t capable of. As for Garth, he simply adored the excitement of chasing the Paper Jaybird. He never felt important except on days like these.

 

These three couldn’t take that empowerment away from the people who needed the Jaybird even more than they did. They didn’t have the heart to stop Castiel. More importantly, in fact, they had the heart to let him fly free.

 

Castiel knew he’d won.

 

Castiel turned his face towards the push of hot air, inhaling the smoke that came pouring from the tunnel. He saw a light bleeding through the darkness, and it swelled to become a beam, cast across waves of dense smoke.

 

The sound became deafening. The train stormed into the station, huge and gleaming, shedding dirt as it slowed. It screamed to a halt mere feet from Castiel’s back. The rush of scalding hot air brought with it a sense of opportunity, of adventure, and, most enticing of all: freedom.

 

At once, the platform was abound with people, porters in red hats, opening doors and polishing train handles and wheeling carts for luggage across the tiles. Only a handful of people exited the five carriages before new passengers swarmed forth.

 

Castiel and Dean pressed closer together, out of the way of everyone else. Sam clung on to the fishbowl, taking every care not to let someone jolt him.

 

“Come on, jaybird,” Dean said. His words ought to have been quiet, but over the sound of the train and the crowd, he had to speak up. He tugged on Castiel’s lapel to energize him. Time to go.

 

Someone offered a hand. Castiel looked up, and he saw a porter waiting, expecting luggage. Castiel’s eyes moved to Garth. Garth nodded, then stepped back.

 

Dean and Castiel let their luggage be taken onto the train ahead of them; Dean clung to his guitar until the last possible moment, but eventually let it go. He only carried his knapsack now. Castiel carried the case of stolen money. He trusted the porters to keep his trumpet safe.

 

Castiel embraced Sam, patting his back. Then Dean gave Sam one last hug from the side, careful of the fishbowl. They whispered their last farewells. Dean promised to write. He smiled, but Castiel could see he was breaking apart inside. Yet, Dean still moved onward. He reached out a hand and helped Castiel up the steps, onto the train.

 

“Wait— Wait!” cried a voice.

 

Dean and Castiel both turned, peering through the grey smoke. Jody was the one who spoke. She looked directly at Dean, and called, “Your friend is a thief, an outlaw, maybe a hero – but who are _you_?”

 

“Me? Heh. I’m nobody,” Dean grinned. He stuck both hands in his pockets and shrugged. Perhaps he heard Castiel’s tut of disagreement, as he then said, “Or, maybe I’m somebody. Somebody awesome. Who knows.”

 

“Are you a thief?” Donna asked.

 

Dean looked over his shoulder at Castiel. “Nah,” he smiled. There was a twinkle in his eye. He turned back to Donna and said, “I’m a magician.”

 

He bowed, giving an illustrious hand twirl. “For my first trick,” he said, winking at Sam, “I’m going to make this train disappear.”

 

And, suffice to say... he did. Well, it took a minute. But one great flurry of coal smoke and a toot of a train whistle later, Dean and Castiel were nowhere to be seen.

 

«··· ✧✦✧ ···»

 

Lieutenant Garth Fitzgerald found a playing card in his pocket later that morning. Ace of diamonds. A golden fish gleamed on the back, looking very smug indeed.

 

That Ace counted as both low and high, Dean confessed to Castiel that night. They snuck into the top bunk together, settling down to sleep in their own private compartment. They were on their third train already, chugging along through the darkness, part-way to Texas.

 

Depending on the game, an Ace could count as a low-ranking card, or an Ace could be the best possible move. For each of Dean’s disappearing tricks, the numbers would climb, and the figure on his calling card would grow bigger and bigger as he and Castiel pilfered and plundered their way across the planet. But there could never be a score so valuable as the one Dean stole that morning.

 

For Dean knew, without a doubt: Castiel Hartley was the most precious ace of diamonds that could ever, ever exist.

  
«··· ✧✦✧ ···»


	14. Paris

******SUMMER 1929 :: ONE YEAR LATER**

 

The roads in Paris ran long. Over bridges, between crooked alleys. At night the city glowed like New York did. Its ambient yellow light illuminated the sky and hid the stars.

 

Miles away, the trees grew lush, the paths winding. Houses stood tall, and far apart. Even from such a distance, the Eiffel tower could still be seen, a spark rising into the darkness.

 

Most people extinguished their lamps at night. The space outside the city existed in a rushing void of gently swaying treetops, nothing but silence and peace.

 

One house was quiet, but only below the treeline. Dark. Silent.

 

The topmost floor, however, had its window shutters wide open, spilling lamplight across the forest. A lullaby played, slow into the night. Each note was unbroken, elegant, and erupted with so much passion that even the birds in the trees didn’t care they couldn’t sleep. The trees themselves seemed to lean closer, just to listen.

 

A chill ran through the woodland. Summer air danced in a vortex, and the house inhaled, bringing a burst of green life into the attic bedroom. The musician’s dark hair curled back on itself in the gust, and the collar of his shirt caressed his neck.

 

He looked up. The trumpet broke from his lips, and he exhaled, in awe of the view: the first rays of moonlight emerged from behind a cloud. A full moon. He smiled as the tide of night painted silver over his skin.

 

The silhouette of his lover stalked forward from the bed, sliding a warm hand across his shoulders. A whisper pressed to his ear: “Come to bed?”

 

Castiel bowed his head, smiling. “Two more minutes.”

 

Dean kissed Castiel’s ear. “‘Kay. Then I wanna read you what I wrote.”

 

“All right.”

 

Dean lingered, resting his chin on Castiel’s shoulder. Beyond the friendly glow of their borrowed home, Paris gleamed. Dean’s heart still felt as buoyant as it had the first day, in the first new city, hearing the first new song Castiel played for him.

 

Every night another view impressed its beauty into Dean’s mind. And every night Castiel expressed both their pleasure in the form of music. There was no way to tire of this. These memories felt eternal in the moment, but would eventually prove to be ephemeral, much like the places themselves. Dean sought to treasure every sight for what it was, not what would never be.

 

They had no home, Dean and Castiel. But they were lucky. They lived a thousand people’s lives, one after another. They became other people through disguises and made up stories, and they slept in other people’s beds, and they took other people’s things, but after a full year of being other people, Dean had never felt more like himself. He’d never been so open-hearted, so willing to show every insecurity and every truth to another person.

 

There could be nothing but honesty between Dean and Castiel. They lived and breathed each other now. They shared the truth – only the truth – and _God_ , was it beautiful.

 

Two minutes accidentally became thirty. Dean was addicted to Castiel’s music, and so he listened, sitting on the window ledge beside him. In Dean’s hands were fifty-two playing cards – all happy red fish – which he balanced on his fingertips, twisted into spirals, and vanished into thin air. He pulled out a golden card from Castiel’s trumpet, and Castiel tooted a laugh. A woodpigeon took offence to the sound and flew away.

 

Grinning broadly, Castiel finally let the trumpet ease from his mouth, and he licked his plumpened lips. He caught Dean’s gaze and tilted his head invitingly.

 

Dean swung his legs back into the attic, bare feet onto the floorboards. He turned his hand and slid the playing cards from his palm, laying them in a neat stack beside the bed. He pulled back the frilly bedcovers, then sat on the left of the mattress with his back to the headboard, waiting as Castiel undressed.

 

Dean picked up a half-finished postcard and an ink pen, and he chewed the end of the pen as he considered his next sentence. He then began to write.

 

Castiel went to the entrance of the attic, hearing a scratch on the wooden door. He opened it to check the stairwell behind it. Nothing but the cat. The owners of the house were away; when Dean and Castiel departed tomorrow, the space would be left exactly as it had been found. Only the cat would ever know about the unsolicited tenants.

 

Castiel joined Dean on the bed, pulling a wad of writing paper into his hands from the nightstand. Upon the bridge of his nose, Castiel set a pair of reading glasses, wiry full-moon shapes with thick lenses. He blinked tiredly, and settled down to re-read what he’d scrawled out that afternoon.

 

The cat meowed, jumping up onto the bed. He was a wary animal; he wasn’t quite sure what to make of these tall, peculiar strangers. Castiel smiled at the cat, reaching out a hand. He cooed, making sweet noises that ought to have enticed anyone.

 

After staring for half a minute, the cat began to wash its orange paws. Castiel sighed, dropping his hand and returning to his work.

 

“He doesn’t like you,” Dean grinned, elbowing Castiel in the side.

 

“He doesn’t _mind_ me,” Castiel countered, frowning at the scramble of papers in his lap. He pretended not to care about the cat, but Dean didn’t miss the twelve times Castiel glanced up in the hope ol’ Ginger Paws had decided to take a step closer.

 

“Look at this mess,” Dean uttered, leaning half his weight on Castiel’s arm. “If you keep churning out pages this fast, you’ll be giving Cassie half of _War and Peace_ by the time you mail it. I know she requested something autobiographical, but boy, Cas, you really are goin’ for it, huh?”

 

“There’s so many eventful anecdotes to consider,” Castiel sighed, removing his spectacles and biting at the curved earpiece. “Are you sure writing a book is the right idea?” he asked, glancing at Dean. “It seems a little egotistical to me. I was comfortable sending one recollection at a time, for New York newspapers.”

 

Dean rolled his eyes, smirking. “You’re not the world’s most average pickpocket, Cas. You’re the Paper-freakin’- _Jaybird_. There’s nothing sexier than a jewel thief,” Dean said, flirtatiously fingering Castiel’s jawline, “‘cept a jewel thief with a heart of gold, that is. People _want_ to know your story. Hell, _I_ want to know, and I’m livin’ it with you.” Dean patted Castiel’s heart with the backs of his knuckles. “Front page of the _New York Times_ is exciting, sure, but imagine what a published _book_ would do for the rest of the world, huh. C’mon. If the international police go on keepin’ things quiet – too quiet – these flossy Parisians will never realise how and _why_ their glitz and glamour was redistributed by a rare bird.” Feeling warm with affection, Dean leaned in and kissed Castiel seductively on the lips, whispering, “The rarest bird of his-or-her kind, ‘s a matter of fact.”

 

“ _Cyanocitta cristata_ , _vox populi_ ,” Castiel smiled. “Blue jay, voice of the people.”

 

Dean laughed. “If that’s your scientific classification, what does that make me? _Abracadabra_? The rabbit you pull out of a hat?”

 

“A thoroughly magical creature, certainly,” Castiel smiled. He kissed Dean’s nose. “But you’re right. we can’t be the voice of the people if the authorities silence us.” He quickly became distracted by the sheer amount of paper in front of him, and he began to rearrange newspaper clippings and his own writings in a more coherent fashion.

 

Castiel hummed, blinking a few times. He looked so studious like this, all tousle-haired and squinty, shuffling through his handwritten tome. Dean smiled, not caring if Castiel caught him beaming like a fool. Dean was just so damn _proud_ of his jaybird, and all he’d accomplished. Somehow, after all he’d achieved, he remained humble.

 

Part of Dean wondered if Castiel even believed he was a hero. Sometimes it seemed as though he went around fixing other people’s problems because he felt it was a natural function, just a thing he was meant to do as a member of the human race, like eating or sleeping. It was like he never considered doing anything else.

 

Dean watched Castiel being incredible every single day, and he himself strived to be as kind, as loving, as curious about the world. Perhaps it was a gracious kind of irony, therefore, that Castiel looked up to Dean, and also saw him as impressive. Though blackened thoughts crept into Dean’s mind sometimes – _not good enough, not worth it, never a match for him_ – Dean still shared himself as if they were equals. In time, he’d finally begun to believe he was worth loving. Castiel made it easy to accept. There wasn’t an ounce of contempt in him when he spoke to Dean. Never anything but genuine, honest affection.

 

Dean kissed Castiel’s bare shoulder, wanting to express everything in his heart all at once. Castiel didn’t pay the kiss much attention, but Dean was satisfied. He sank back to his side of the bed and chewed his pen again, preparing to finish off his postcard.

 

Soon afterwards, Castiel blinked hard, removing his spectacles and rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. “Hmm. Too much for tonight.”

 

“Can I read you what I wrote to Sam?” Dean asked, waving his postcard. When Castiel turned his head to look, Dean showed him. “See, there’s a photograph of Paris on the front, ain’t that pretty. I picked this up at the café we had lunch in today.”

 

Castiel put his spectacles back on. “Oh, that _is_ nice.”

 

Dean cleared his throat and leaned his cheek on Castiel’s bare shoulder. “ _Dear Sammy,_ ” Dean read. “ _Paris is even more spectacular than the picture. It’s full of colour, good food and flowers everywhere, and the sky is the brightest blue you’ve ever seen._ ”

 

“More blue than my eyes?” Castiel teased.

 

“No,” Dean snickered. “But if I wrote down every nice thing I thought about you, I’d run out of space. I gotta write extra small as it is.”

 

“Oh, I see,” Castiel said, with put-on consideration. He snorted when Dean headbutted him.

 

“ _Today we ate French tart and cream, outside a sunny tea room by the Seine. French pastry is beyond compare, Sammy. Someday you gotta try it. Tomorrow we’re taking a ferry across the river, and we’re having dinner with a friend. We’re leaving Paris soon, so he’ll give us a few days’ head start before he follows. There are some museums in Luxembourg that Cas is intent on visiting – we’re hoping we see something special._ ”

 

“Do you suppose Sam has figured out that our friend is Garth?” Castiel asked.

 

Dean scoffed. “‘Course. C’mon. You’re talking about _Sam_ , the guy who pins up all our postcards on his map and puts red ribbons leading to to the _exact geographic location_ that we must’ve been writing this. Next time we get a letter from him, I’ll bet you nearly anything that he finds a way to put Garth’s name in code.”

 

Dean turned his eyes back to the postcard, and read the last lines: “ _Hope Uncle Bobby goes easy on you this week, little brother. And tell Mr. Fish that Cas wishes him a happy birthday. We’ll send money and a package from Luxembourg! All our love, Dean and Cas._ ”

 

The cat meowed, then yawned, stretching forward on his front legs, claws reaching to snag the lace covers. He slunk forward carelessly, standing on Castiel’s thigh, then the bed, then Dean’s lap.

 

Dean raised his arms to shoulder-height, grimacing. “Eeeeeh. Go away, go away, I’m allergic to cats,” he muttered, frozen in place. He tossed the postcard at the cat, to no avail.

 

Castiel grinned, taking off his glasses and folding them on the nightstand. “He must sense a little magic on you.”

 

“Puh!” Dean said, squirming away from the cat as it tried to rub on his chin. “Shoo! Shoo-cat. G’way.” He twitched. “Ah. Aaaah...”

 

Dean then proceeded to sneeze, loudly. The cat bolted out of the room before Dean could even open his eyes. Dean sniffed. His hearing returned, only for him to hear Castiel guffawing next to him. Dean wiped his eyes with his fingertips. “Glad someone’s having a good time,” he grumbled.

 

With a huge grin, Castiel leaned in and smooched Dean’s neck. “Hm! No wonder the cat likes you. You’re the perfect treat, little fish.”

 

Dean shoved Castiel playfully. “Get outta my face, I ain’t catnip.”

 

“Oh, didn’t anyone teach you any manners, my prince?” Castiel whispered, gazing at Dean’s lips. “I’m in half a mind to throw you from the tallest tower of the palace for your insolence.”

 

Dean rolled his eyes, then gazed back, happiness radiating from deep within him. “But your highness, you wouldn’t dare.”

 

“Mm, maybe not,” Castiel admitted. It was all nonsense. Foreplay, perhaps. He kissed Dean’s mouth gently, rolling forward as he inhaled, eyes closing.

 

Giving a low hum, Dean surged into the contact, one hand sliding around the nape of Castiel’s neck, tangling in curled locks of hair. Castiel laughed softly, Dean grinning as they shared affections.

 

Deep murmurs of appreciation slid from each of their mouths, exhales tickling their lips between kisses. Both of them quickly grew giddy, snickering as they nosed at each other.

 

After a number of small, soft-mouthed smooches, Castiel made a sound of interest. Dean’s heart leapt; without any fanfare, Castiel climbed onto Dean’s lap, straddling one thigh.

 

“Oh...” Dean exhaled shakily, already excited.

 

Whenever Castiel teased like this, with his whole body, Dean’s physical relief was sure to follow within minutes. It was a trained response for his face to grow hot, and for his stomach to fill with butterflies as he took in the sight of Castiel’s commanding expression. Now Dean’s appetite had been whetted, he wondered what treats he could look forward to.

 

Castiel licked his lips, canting his hips forward against Dean’s belly. Dean gasped, resisting the urge to hump in response. He had to go easy; he didn’t want to startle Castiel like he’d startled the cat.

 

“Do you want to touch yourself, Dean?” Castiel asked, voice husky.

 

“C- Can I?” Dean asked, holding Castiel’s waist. A smile fluttered on his lips. “Will you watch?”

 

Castiel tilted his head, examining Dean’s flaming cheeks and dilated pupils. Dean swallowed, and he saw how Castiel’s gaze tracked the bounce in his throat.

 

“I’ll watch if you want me to,” Castiel promised. His eyes met Dean’s again, and Dean nodded eagerly.

 

 _Please, yes_.

 

“Then I will.” One more soft kiss. Castiel wasn’t aroused, but having heard many of Dean’s explanations, he understood how his body was meant to feel when overtaken by lust, and how to move to mimic it as Dean needed. His body pushed to Dean’s, drawn at the hip. He was soft-shouldered, and his spine moved as if he were wanting.

 

Dean grinned briefly, then relaxed, then rushed to bring Castiel into deep, deep kiss, gripping his hips. Dean sighed into Castiel’s mouth, and was excited to hear and feel a rumbly moan in response. Like hand-holding, kissing had become a major part of their intimate moments. Kisses were sultry for lips, nuzzly for cheeks, soft on the eyelids. All along the jawline – a nibble on the ear.

 

Dean bit his lip, sliding his shoulder blades down the headboard and onto the bed, legs crumpling up the covers. With a groan of delight, he shut his eyes, feeling Castiel readjust over his waist, then bend to kiss his neck, before the delicate skin below his ear.

 

“Hmmh, Cas,” Dean breathed. He bit his lip, moaning through a sigh as Castiel turned his face to look down Dean’s body, to the firming rise in his shorts. Dean’s eyes hungrily took in the sight of Castiel an inch away, and he couldn’t help but lift his head to kiss his cheek. Castiel smiled. He faced Dean again, nose-to-nose, and they nuzzled as Dean gave in to instinct; one hand caressed his erection, squeezing once.

 

“Are you comfortable?” Castiel asked.

 

Dean nodded, blushing. “Uh-huh. I’m cozy. You?”

 

“Hm...” Castiel shuffled about, trying to find a way to settle. Soon enough he found a good position. While Dean relaxed on his back, Castiel sculpted himself to Dean’s side in a familiar way: his buttocks warmed the topmost part of Dean’s left thigh, legs apart over him. “There,” Castiel sighed.

 

Dean swallowed, re-settling his head on his pillow. He gazed at Castiel through half-open eyes, adoring the way Castiel looked back. At times like these, Castiel looked fierce, or curious, or both. The full circles of his blue eyes showed, the personal attention he offered became intense, and he seemed to be silently cheering Dean on, any words of encouragement swapped for kisses – kisses to his cheek, his nose, his neck.

 

For Dean, sexual touch was... well, sexual. It was romantic as well, because, heck, he was with Cas, and there wasn’t any other way to feel. Dean loved it, he loved every aspect of their confluence. But it had taken a lot of experimentation to find a way to let the same act work for Castiel. Some nights, there was a very real chance that Dean could satisfy himself but fall asleep before Castiel was equally as content. For a long time Dean had thought it would be impossible, since Castiel achieved nothing from being touched.

 

But, now, after months of trial and error (not to mention numerous heated arguments, all borne of frustration) they still followed a simple rule, which they’d agreed on together a full year ago: Dean wasn’t allowed to initiate sexual contact, only Castiel could. Sure, Dean could ask for it – and he would, nearly every night if he could help it – but Castiel had to be the one to move first.

 

Oftentimes, Dean would only touch himself, but sometimes – very rarely – Castiel would ask Dean to let his hands wander. Usually Dean got as far as sucking a nipple, or fingers, or hipbones, and then Castiel would make him stop. But it was enough. For Castiel it wasn’t about the tactile act, it was about the way the touches made them both feel. Loved, and safe, and wanted. For Castiel, sex went well beyond physical. He could only be satisfied by emotional intimacy. Sometimes that didn’t mean sex at all. Sometimes that meant having Dean laugh at a joke, or playing with his hands for an hour. Sometimes it meant talking all night, and Dean was more than happy to oblige. After all they’d seen and done, they had a lot to talk about.

 

There wasn’t a whole lot to talk about right now, though. Castiel said it all: “Hold my hand.” The fingers of his right hand slid to lock between Dean’s left, pressed to the pillow – and Dean let out a sigh of pleasure. They grinned, observing the softness in each other’s gaze.

 

They lay nose-to-nose, breathing each other’s air and trading little kisses. Dean touched himself slowly, basking in the sight of Castiel before him, his pretty eyes, the tan on his cheeks, and his gently-rubbing thumb just visible at the corner of Dean’s vision, where Castiel held tight to Dean’s hand.

 

“Mh... Cas – auh-hh...” On each slow stroke of Dean’s hand, his breath quaked. Helpless, breathy whispers... Each sound emerged weakly, until a hard cuss slipped from Dean’s lips. “Shit!” Dean grunted, lifting his head enough so he could see his own hand, fist completely filled with his erection. He huffed out a laugh, biting his lip. “Nhh. Ff—! _Gah_... hh...” His head flopped down again, eyes shut. He pulled slowly, feeling his erection begin to strain with pressure – beautiful tension – and Dean squirmed, pushing his hips upwards against Castiel. Their heat collided, and Dean accidentally left a wet trail on Castiel’s hip. “Oh, fuck. I didn’t mean to touch— S-Sorry—”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Castiel whispered. “Don’t worry, my love. Let it happen.” He mumbled those words and a dozen other silly, affectionate things against Dean’s ear, lips dragging. He toyed with Dean’s earlobe, sharp feelings followed by soft, followed by warm and wet. Dean moaned.

 

Whenever Castiel lifted his head and looked to see what Dean was doing, Dean slowed down to let him watch. Slick foreskin wrinkled at the tip of his erection, pushed by the circle of his thumb and forefingers; then delicate flesh relaxed past his palm and fingertips – gradually, as he loosened his hold only the slightest bit. “U- _hh_...” Dean let out small vocalisations, breath shuddering in his throat. “Cas. C-Cas. Ah. You still good for watchin’?” Castiel nodded. Dean flushed hot. “Alright. Mmh, ‘s good. Fuck.”

 

The excitement of being seen, that illicit kind of feeling, it made Dean’s toes curl and his palms _sweat_. He tightened his hold on Castiel’s hand, while his other hand jacked a little faster around his girth, hips jolting to meet the touch. His pacing became erratic, which only served to spur him on. Gasping, shaking. The variation struck lightning in his core, a gale of pleasure picking up speed before calming, then starting anew as a hurricane.

 

Dean cried out under his breath, looking to Castiel for assurance and affection, or maybe just the electric feeling he always got when Castiel met his eyes. Castiel peered back, eyes gleaming. He sank close to Dean again, baiting another moment in which they could exchange kisses and nuzzle against each other’s faces. Dean grumbled, nosing forward for more whenever Castiel dared draw back for air.

 

Castiel did seem enraptured by the sight of what Dean did with his hand. Perhaps he was only fulfilling his promise to watch, but he made soft sounds, sweet sighs of satisfaction that echoed Dean’s quiet mewls.

 

For the most part, they lay nearly unmoving, just huffing on each other’s faces in time with Dean’s shaking arm. Dean moved faster and faster as his eyebrows rose, surprised and enticed by the promise of completion. He couldn’t help but grin, though it was a trembling expression. Castiel always seemed to crave another look, giving a lick of his lips and a lengthy glance downward. Dean moved steadily again, trying to put on a show.

 

It got more difficult to make theatrics of it when the pleasure started to come in waves. Dean clung to Castiel’s hand and whined on every breath, begging for mercy and more at once. Castiel smothered him in kisses, humming notes of confidence into his mouth, against his throat. “Almost there. Almost there, Dean. Come on.” Gritty, guttural whispers.

 

“Muhh,” was all Dean managed to say before he fell into that downward spiral of panting and gasping and sweating, hand gliding until it smacked to his hilt – back up to the tip, over and over until he was trickling wetness over his knuckles. “Cas – Cas, oh shit—” He laughed, biting down on his lip, again looking to Castiel for comfort. Castiel was busy watching Dean come, which only made Dean come harder. But Castiel sensed Dean’s eyes on him, and he looked back. He moved closer and held Dean’s cheek under his hand, kissing him through his orgasm. For Dean, it felt like toppling over a sun-sparkling waterfall of heat, right before he got caught up in the turmoil of the plunge pool below. His whole body felt the shock of it.

 

Castiel went on kissing Dean during the lucid seconds afterwards. When Dean finally settled, limp from head to toe, Castiel gave him one long, deep kiss. Dean let himself be pushed into the mattress, serenaded with more sensual input than he could usually handle.

 

Castiel grinned, exhaling over Dean’s plump lips. A hand threaded back through his hair, pushing it high. “Feel better now?” Castiel asked, tilting his head.

 

Dean nodded. “Feels awesome.” He lifted his head for another kiss, and of course Castiel obliged.

 

They rested for a while.

 

Then, Dean felt the inevitable press of Castiel’s fingers to his ribs. Tapping, tapping, tapping. A song was trapped inside him, fighting to get out. Dean grinned, swiping his fingers down Castiel’s back. “Go on, then,” he uttered. “One more song?”

 

“One more song,” Castiel agreed. At once, his eyes were bright with gratification, and Dean knew he’d made the right call. Music was the only way Castiel wanted to express climax: his peak was the chorus of a trumpet solo.

 

Castiel slipped from the bed and went to the window, naked. He took his trumpet and set it to his lips. There was no hesitation, and no way to resist the craving. There always had to be more music. Dean followed in lazy steps, his waist wrapped up in a trailing white bedsheet. He perched backwards against the window ledge beside Castiel and let him share the sheet. It spilled from the window, and Dean watched its ends dangle and drift against the ivy trellis outside.

 

Dean sat, and he listened. He shut his eyes and felt the relief of the moon on his back. He felt a chill, but not because he was cold. The music was just too good. Part of Dean ached in mourning, as he’d never hear this arrangement of notes ever again. But that was part of the magic. Like every card trick, each song was original, inspired, and was made for an audience of one.

 

Well, the cat came back to listen. An audience of two, then. Dean stretched out a foot and petted the cat’s head with his toes, and he smirked when the cat began to purr, rubbing its fuzzy cheeks on his heel. Sometimes it was nice to share good music.

 

The cat leapt up onto the ledge and sat down beside Dean’s knee. It swung its tail in time to Castiel’s song, still purring, its feline eyes trained vaguely on the coruscating bed of embers that was Paris at night. Dean looked back over his shoulder, admiring the same sight through his long eyelashes. Perhaps he didn’t see what the cat saw, but what he saw was wonderful anyway.

 

Unlike times long before, when Dean gave himself over to the tune, now he imagined nothing but the city before him. No view but the one he could see ahead. No places except the places they’d leave for tomorrow. Now he fantasised about the life he had, and the music took him nowhere but here.

 

Almost as an afterthought, Dean lifted his guitar from beside the window, and he sank back against the folded shutters. He played a quiet rhythm under Castiel’s melody, gazing at his lover, truly playing from his heart outwards.

 

How incredible life was, Dean thought. Here, in Paris! Together they’d achieved what had seemed impossible a year ago. Regardless of what Castiel’s support had enabled Dean to do, _Dean_ was the one who changed his own life, through the choices he made. And now? Now he was lost in a world of make-believe, living out a fairytale. Though life as a jewel thief offered few creature comforts, Dean still had everything he needed, and wanted. He still entertained endless fantasies, working to make them part of his reality. And he was happy because of it.

 

Dean and Castiel’s song radiated into the night, undulating towards the stars. As they played, more stars emerged from the darkness. They gleamed, like jewels on black velvet. But the stars were nothing in comparison: the brightest treasures of all had instruments in their hands, and they sang to each other, every note shining and effervescent with love.

  
The moon rose higher. The clouds cleared, the stars sparkled in vivid colours, and the music played on, and on, and on.

 

 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story arrived in my head while I was standing outside in the middle of the night in April, staring up at the moon. Because I was so sick, five months passed between conception and completion – which, I believe, is the longest time I’ve ever worked on one story (about the same as [that 400k magnum opus](http://archiveofourown.org/works/575345)). This was also one of the most difficult projects I’ve ever dedicated myself to. But, somehow, it was also one of the most fun.
> 
> While I was about halfway through writing, I realised this story was heavily inspired by the movie _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ (1961), [this art](http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1335/5163722675_b2ef1fc9da_o.jpg), and a bunch of songs ([available to listen to and download here](https://app.box.com/s/i6n600qbs44rdg8w90ccejjun25xeqdt), and [a tumblr reblog with cover art is here](http://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/151412530460/the-moonlighter-and-the-magician-soundtrack-for)).
> 
>  _The Moonlighter and the Magician_ ended up being the spiritual successor of my 1950s AU [_Take You To The Country_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4301445) – featuring many of the same themes and characters. I took ideas I never used there and used them for this instead. So if you enjoyed this, chances are you’d dig that too. It’s shorter, and even cuter.
> 
> Anyway, I’d love to know what you thought of this fic! Your feedback (or kudos!) shall be enthusiastically appreciated. ♥
> 
> ☾[my tumblr](http://almaasi.tumblr.com/)


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